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SANDY OORANG 

By 

HORACE LYTLE 


and Other Stories of 
Dogs and the 
Wilderness 


NEW YORK 

R. F. FENNO & COMPANY 
MCMXXII 



Copyright, 1922 
By J. HORACE LYTLE 

All Rights Reserved 

Copyright, 1921 
By THE CENTURY COMPANY 

Copyright, 1921 

By THE LESLIE-JUDGE COMPANY 




/ 

DEC 18 ^? 



® Cl A898G19 


To HARVEY J . KING , I dedi- 
cate this book , all the kind 

thought that lies within my power 
to give , believing that he , 0/ a// men 
I have ever known , mo^ truly and 
deeply appreciates and understands 
and loves the wonderful ways and 
wisdom of good dogs . 





































ACKNOWLEDGMENT 

O F the stories in this volume, 
“The Monarch of Moose Lake” 
first appeared in LESLIE’S, and 
“The Mightiest Eagle” in ST. NICHO- 
LAS. “The Heart of a Pal” was 
awarded a prize in the story contest 
conducted by OUTERS’ RECREATION, 
but was withdrawn upon the author’s 
identification with the editorial staff 
of the magazine. 

The author desires to make grateful 
acknowledgment to the editors and 
publishers of these periodicals for the 
privilege of reprinting this material 
from their pages. 





TABLE OF CONTENTS 


Sandy Oorang 

Chapter I 21 

Chapter II 36 

Chapter III 47 

Chapter IV 58 

Chapter V 66 

Chapter VI 77 

Chapter VII 98 

Chapter VIII 109 

Chapter IX 131 

Chapter X 142 

Chapter XI . ... 149 

Chapter XII 160 

Chapter XIII 165 

Chapter XIV 175 

The Heart of a Pal 183 

The Monarch of Moose Lake 215 

The Mightiest Eagle 235 


























































































































































































































































































































































































































































INTRODUCTION 


I NASMUCH as by far the majority of 
situations throughout this book are laid 
in the very heart of the great unexplored 
forests of the far North, we feel that it is in 
keeping with the spirit of the entire book, 
and will prepare the mind of the reader more 
thoroughly to enjoy the feast before him, if we 
give in the author's own words as follows his 
impression of “The Spell of the Wilderness." 

* * * * * * 

What is the spell of the wilderness? 

From all I can learn, strong men have 
always felt the lure of the wild places. The 
heart of the hills, the tangled forests, the 
hidden lake or mountain stream — all hold 
their silent call, sure in its power and in- 
cessant in the web of wonder that it weaves. 

You feel it steal subtly over you when 
looking down from — or up to — a mighty 
mountain. You breathe of it in great gulps 
of gladness and drink deep of the glory of life. 


INTRODUCTION 


Or, you tread with light step the soft, 
springy, moss-strewn trails that lead through 
wide, unbroken stretches of mighty pine or 
spruce or birch or balsam in a virgin forest 
— and here again you feel the spell and hear 
the call. You stand where the Red Children 
of the Forests have stood before you — 
where the moose and the elk and the deer 
still roam — and the tuneful, soothing 
fragrance that fills your lungs as you inhale of 
it, carries into your very soul a strength that 
is at once free and pure. 

The trail turns — and through the tiny 
vista you behold a sparkling, forest-bordered 
lake, whose laughing, playful waters beckon 
to you alluringly as they gently lap the shore 
and urge you on. Farther out, this dark- 
blue water, indicative of depth, is cool and 
clear — so clear that the full height of the 
bordering pines is mirrored downward so 
distinctly that you might think it another 
forest turned up on end. Thus, on such a 
lake, the trees soar both skyward — and 
downward in shadows that are but echoes 
of the reality. 

And then again you stand beside a surging 
trout stream as it sings along sailing a voyage 


INTRODUCTION 


that in time will bring it to the sea — and 
here again you feel that same call of the wild 
places, the ever-old spell of the wilderness. 

It makes no difference where you are — 
so you be far from fences and farms, cities, 
courts and culture — you feel it. And as it 
subtly steals over you, you will be soothed 
and refreshed as though by a touch from 
The Divine Hand. 

But the spell works best the farther you 
are from even the framework of civilization. 
Even the most remote toot of a taxi would 
spoil it — a churchbell itself would be almost 
a sacrilege. 

The sun seems to shine with more splendor 
over the wilderness than over the works of 
man, while the moon seems both softer and 
sadder — as though weeping on a sympa- 
thetic bosom in sorrow for things elsewhere 
that her sad, searching eyes have seen. 
Even a storm — the roaring thunder and 
the slashing lightning — seems to have a 
greater grandeur if it be with an accompani- 
ment of the sighing of the trees and the 
washing of the waves. 

There seems to be a finer feeling between 
man and man in the forest than in the forum. 


INTRODUCTION 


Let even an Indian come upon another's 
trap, and find it full, and he will not pass it 
by unnoticed; neither will he take it for his 
own. He will remove the pelt, reset the 
trap, and hang the catch up high out of 
harm's way, for the rightful owner to find — 
then he will pass on! Would that such were 
more the spirit of the cities! 

In the wilderness all men are simple, 
straightforward, sturdy and strong. In our 
cities, too many are cold, cautious, calculat- 
ing — and cowardly. Mark you I did not 
say all — I merely said too many. 

And why is it all? 

In congested centers there is, and cannot 
help but be, a constant rush and scramble. 
There is a lack of time which results in loss 
of temper. There is noise and confusion and 
haste. One day after another is such a blur 
of bustle that the mind is never in real repose. 
True relaxation is a Utopian dream. Brick 
and buildings, paint and perfumes, trucks 
and trollies, airplanes and elevators — one 
and all are man-made; and they are all man 
sees whose feet feel nothing but pavements. 

There is not enough time in the cities to 
think properly of God. There is not enough 


INTRODUCTION 


of the direct work of God always on every 
hand. We do not forget that God gave man 
all that he has, and wanted him to use it — 
that all manner of power is directly traceable 
to the Sun — but we do believe that much of 
the mysterious wonder of silent places is 
because one sees there nothing but the direct, 
unspoiled, unblemished creations of God. 

All is peace and quiet. All is magnificent 
and gorgeous and grand. All that the eye 
sees is the virgin work of the Creator on 
High — all that one feels or hears or senses. 
There is no hurry, no rush, no screaming 
whistles, no calculating attempt to fight a 
cautious, cruel, crafty cannibalistic battle of 
wits, man against man, for the survival of 
the fittest. 

And one's thoughts, and one's heart, turn 
to God — and linger with God, and are close 
to God. And it is good. 

And it is just this thing which is after all, 
I believe, the real secret of The Spell of the 
Wilderness . 


* * * * * * 


As wilderness life would be inconceivable 
without the companionship of a dog on the 


INTRODUCTION 


trail before you, or in the bow of your canoe, 
it is only natural that these noble creatures 
should be prominent actors in the stories in 
this book. 

The author’s love and understanding of 
dogs and of the wilderness are so intimate 
that he is able to write with a sincerity of 
conviction and with an affection so gen- 
uinely felt and so instinctive that his books 
warm the heart and quicken the pulse of the 
reader. 


SANDY OORANG 


NOTE 


F OR quite some time, the story of Sandy 
Oorang’s life has seemed to me a matter 
worthy of record — and not less so 
from the fact that he was only a dog. 

It has been my observation that the lives 
of some dogs are much more worthy than the 
lives of a great many men. They offer such 
splendid lessons in willing sacrifice and 
unswerving fidelity. 

The special features in the case of Sandy 
Oorang were the breadth of his experiences, 
the extent of his travels, and the (at least for 
a dog) distinctly remarkable conclusions that 
he reached, in his canine mind, regarding the 
matters and methods of men. 

But Sandy required an interpreter — one 
who would understand the lingo of dogs as 
well as the language of men — and I feel it 
a deep honor, as well as a distinct privilege, 
to have been chosen for this task. 

The entire story is Sandy's own — I have 
done no more than translate it into our 
language. Beyond that, I have ho claim to 
assert in connection with the story. 

J. H. L. 


SANDY OORANG 


Chapter I 


T HE passing years bring a dog very 
quickly from puppyhood to old age — 
a span so short that, in a person, it 
would still represent the early teens of boy- 
hood. My life has been crowded into the 
space of twelve short years, each succeeding 
year seemingly shorter than the one before. 
You know how it is. At the age of twelve 
I am old — for a dog. I have not a great 
while longer to live on this earth. And so, 
because I have been told that my experiences 
in life have been both varied and extensive, 
I am taking this occasion to record them 
while there is still time. Before much longer 
I shall have passed into the great beyond. 
But I am at peace. Whatever that brings me 
will be right and just. You see, we dogs 
have a faith in the future — just as you 
people have — or shall I say should have? 
Yet what would any life be worth without 
21 


22 


SANDY OORANG 


faith? What otherwise would furnish our in- 
spirations and lift one beyond the sordid? 
Oh, yes — do not forget that faith means 
as much to a dog as it does to you. I do not 
know what differences there may be between 
your future and ours — but there is One who 
will see to that for us. Neither you nor 
we need bother our heads about it, so long 
as we live according to our respective stand- 
ards and never fail to hold our faith. 

I was born of blue-blooded parents — real 
utility dogs, both of them — on a farm in 
the central part of the great state of Ohio. 
Hence, although my travels have been far 
and wide, I have always considered myself 
a full fledged “Buckeye,” native born. 

There were eight of us in the litter. I had 
three sisters and four brothers. I was the 
runt — but that didn’t make any difference 
to me. I have always enjoyed life to the 
fullest, since as far back as I can remember. 
Yet I must confess that when I was very, very 
young I had to scramble pretty hard to secure 
from my good mother my share of the suste- 
nance of life, because my brothers and sisters* 
were all so much larger, and were greedy and 
not very thoughtful of me. Still, it was 


SANDY OORANG 


23 


good for me, in a way, for it taught me val- 
uable lessons of independence and in time I 
grew out of my runthood. 

My first experience with the world came 
when we were about eight weeks old. Viewed 
in the light of maturity, it was not much of 
an experience; but from the standpoint of a 
puppy, I can still recall my intense thrill in 
the joy of my accomplishment. Our master 
came one day to the stall which was our home 
and spoke to my mother. 

“Come, Queen, old girl,” he said, “it’s time 
you were gettin’ back to work. Those pups 
are big enough now to leave alone for a while.” 

And at the first word of command, our 
mother left us promptly and followed the 
master. He pushed shut the big door of the 
box-stall, and they went out. Eight little 
Airedale pups stood close to that box-stall 
door and whined. 

We watched them until they came to the 
outer door of the bam, where the master 
stopped and looked down at our mother. 
Then he stooped down and patted her, 
speaking kindly. “You’re a good dog, 
Queenie,” was all he said; but it seemed to 
mean a lot to our mother, from the way she 


24 


SANDY OORANG 


looked up into his eyes, wagged her stub of a 
tail, and licked his hand. They went out of 
the bam together. 

The eight of us in the box-stall continued 
to whine for a while after they had gone. 
Then my brothers and sisters began to play, 
and were soon having a good time. But I 
did not join them, for I wanted my mother. 
Around the edges of the stall I went, sniffing 
and crying to myself. Pretty soon I poked 
my head tentatively between the bars, and 
then I made a great discovery. Being so 
small, I could squeeze my whole body through ; 
and that is just what I did. The others 
never could have done it. There was some 
advantage in being small. 

I crossed the bam to where I had watched 
the master and my mother go through the 
outer door. It was still ajar, and I tumbled 
through it. I say tumbled, because that's 
just what I did. There was a drop of about 
a foot from the door-sill to the ground. I 
landed on my back, but I didn’t stay there 
long. In a jiffy I was up and looking for my 
mother. I ran around and around, but 
neither she nor the master were anywhere 
in sight. 


SANDY OORANG 


25 


And then, all of a sudden, I made another 
even more marvelous discovery ! I came 
across my mother's smell on the ground. It 
was quite a surprise to me, but it was none the 
less unmistakable, and I followed it. I was 
not afraid; for no matter where it might 
lead, it would bring me to my mother. I 
knew that instinctively. So I went on, fol- 
lowing my first trail. In my maturity I 
have followed many another, ranging from 
coon to bear, but none that has ever given 
me quite the same sort of exhilarating thrill 
as did that first trail of my mother, when I 
made the very useful and interesting discov- 
ery that my nose held a knowledge even 
greater than my eyes. 

With joy in my heart and head bent low 
to hold the scent, I followed what my nose 
told me so plainly were the recent footsteps 
of my parent. The trail led away from the 
barn, through a gate and across a field. 
The gate was closed, but I was so small that 
I could easily slip right through between the 
boards. In the field it was rougher and 
harder going. Before very long I began to 
get tired, but kept right on going, for I dared 
not stop. Finally I came to a ditch that 


26 


SANDY OORANG 


seemed to run clear across the field, and 
there was water running through it. I could 
see no way to get around, so I figured the 
only thing to do» was to cross over. Besides, 
I was afraid to leave my mother’s smell, and 
that led over the bank of the ditch. I was 
not afraid of the water — something inside 
of me seemed to say that I’d like it. An 
Airedale, even from puppyhood, takes to 
water as naturally as a duck. Since then, I 
have crossed the ocean twice — but until 
that moment I had never before seen water 
except such as the master gave us in a pan 
to drink. So you will see that my lack of 
fear must have been due to my breeding. 

Be that as it may, over the bank I went 
without further question, for my nose told 
me more plainly than words that my mother 
had gone that way. But for a little pup 
like me that bank was very steep and I lost 
my balance. When I landed smack in the 
water, I was upside down. It was so sudden, 
I was frightened for a minute, but not for long. 
The splash of the water was hardly over 
before I was swimming towards the opposite 
bank. A man could have jumped across, 
but I had to swim. When I got over, I 


SANDY OORANG 


27 


crawled out and shook myself. My first 
thought was to go back into the water — it 
was such fun. Then I realized that I could 
not do that, for I must find my mother. 
Perhaps after that, if I told her what fun it 
was, she might let me go back into the water 
again some day. But I knew I must not do 
it now. 

I put my nose to the ground to pick up the 
trail again, and then it was I first remembered 
that I had not noticed it in the water. I had 
lost the trail! And yet, even though reason 
seemed to point out that I must have for- 
gotten to follow the trail through the water 
— in the surprise of the fall and the joy of 
my first swim — yet some instinct told me 
even more forcibly that such was not the 
case. Without knowing why, I just seemed 
to know that I would not find the trail in 
the water, but that I could pick it up again 
on this side of the ditch. I put my nose to 
the ground, but the trail was not there. I 
ran down the ditch quite a distance without 
finding it. I was lost and frightened. I ran 
back to where I had come out of the water. 
Perhaps in the other direction I might find 
the smell I sought. It was worth trying, 


28 


SANDY OORANG 


and I went, whimpering as I ran. I soon 
found what the trouble was — when I 
crossed the ditch I had not done so in a 
straight line. In just a minute I came to a 
path almost where I had entered the water 
on the other side, and in that path I picked 
up again the beloved smell! I will never 
forget that moment — how joy came back 
to me with a rush, mingled with not a little 
of puppy pride in the powers of my sensitive 
nose. It seemed hard to believe that only a 
moment before I had been frightened almost 
to panic. 

Still softly whining, but now only in the 
keenness of my anticipation and the eager- 
ness of my great joy, I picked up the broken 
trail and followed it. To cross the other half 
of the field, beyond the ditch, was the work 
of but a few minutes. Then I came to a rail 
fence and crawled through because the smell 
of my mother lay beyond it, coming to me 
more keenly all the time as I advanced. 
The opposite side of the fence was lined with 
a dense growth of berry bushes, but past 
these the ground underfoot became soft and 
velvety with green grass. There were tall 
trees everywhere. I put my head down to 


SANDY OORANG 


29 


follow the trail, but had gone only a short 
distance when I heard our master’s voice. 

“Well, I’ll be jiggered!” he exclaimed; and 
even I could tell that he was very much sur- 
prised about something, thought I did not 
know what he was talking about, nor to whom. 
“Look what we have here, Queenie!” he said. 
“Here’s one of your sons — an’ I thought we’d 
left the whole bunch of ’em back at the farm.” 

I now saw my mother and knew that she 
saw me; but the thing I could not understand 
was why she did not come over to me. But 
she stayed right where she was, so I started 
to go to her. Then I noticed that she was 
doing the oddest thing — she was holding 
some strange animal by the ear! Before I 
reached them, however, the master had 
grabbed me up in his arms and was talking 
to me. He was a big, strong man with a 
powerful, deep voice, but he was very kind 
and I had always liked him. Besides that, 
I knew that my mother loved him, and that 
was enough for me. So I curled up close in 
his arms while he held me and talked. 

“You’re a dandy,” he said as he scratched 
my back. “You’ll be a great dog some day. 
Lots of sense an’ lots of sand — that’s just 


30 


SANDY OORANG 


what we’ll call you: 'Sandy.’ An’ you’re 
goin’ to have a great nose — the idea of you 
followin’ us clear out here to the woods! 
Wet, too, by golly! That means the ditch 
back yonder didn’t have you bluffed. Well, 
well — we’ll just keep you , that’s what. I 
was goin’ to sell the hull outfit, but when the 
truck comes this afternoon, you’ll not be 
goin’ with the others. See, Sonny? — Sandy , 
I mean. I wonder what to do with you now, 
though, while I finish ringin’ this hog.” 

With that, he took an old box that was 
laying close by and put me in it. Then he 
placed some sticks over the open top with a 
heavy stone to hold them down, so that I 
could not get out. He spoke a few gentle 
words to quiet me, and left me. I knew that 
I was supposed to remain where I was, so I 
did not try to get away; but I did poke my 
head out between the sticks, for I was curious 
and wanted to see what was going on. 

All this while my mother had continued to 
hold that strange animal by the ear. This 
gave me my first lesson in sticking to duty, 
for I knew that my mother would surely 
have come to me if she had not had a duty 
to perform. And that early example set by 


SANDY OORANG 


31 


my wonderful mother helped me in my own 
after life, when I had frequent occasion 
to remember that I must always remain true 
to duty even at the expense of desire. For, 
although I am only a dog, I believe my advice 
is sound when I say it amounts almost to a 
crime ever to allow one’s desire to interfere 
with what may be one’s duty. 

With my head poked through the sticks 
on top of my box, I watched carefully to see 
what my mother and the master were doing. 
Yet I could not make much out of it. Pretty 
soon they let the animal go, and with a grunt 
it ran away into the woods. Then the master 
sent my mother to fetch another animal, and 
in a minute she brought him one, holding it 
by the ear just like the last and leading it 
right up to where he was. I pushed my 
head out as far as I could, so I could see this 
time what they were doing. While my 
mother held it for him by the ear, the master 
put a ring through the animal’s nose. Since 
then, I have myself helped do the same thing 
a great many times. It is called 1 Tinging” 
the hogs. I know, too, that when you can 
get a dog that helps as much as my mother 
did, it saves the work of several men. 


32 


SANDY OORANG 


It was not long until my mother and the 
master were through with their job, and 
they came over to me. My mother jumped 
ahead of the master then and was licking my 
face when he got there to take away the stone 
and sticks which held me a prisoner. The 
master picked me up out of the box and 
patted me for a minute. Then he put me 
down by my mother and — while the big man 
waited patiently — I had a good meal with- 
out being cheated out of my share by my 
brothers and sisters. After that we all 
started home, the master carrying me in his 
arms, and my mother trotting along at his 
heels, yet looking up every little while at 
him and at me. I knew right then that we 
three were destined to be great pals, and I 
was very happy. 

When we were about half way home, the 
master stopped and spoke to my mother. 
“I wonder if you hadn't better go fetch the 
cows," he said, and my mother was off 
almost before he had finished speaking. But 
she stopped dead in her tracks when he called 
to her and changed the order. "I didn't 
mean the cows, Queenie — I meant horses. 


SANDY OORANG 


33 


Understand, horses. I’ll carry Sandy an' 
you go get the horses 

My mother then changed her direction and 
went off as bidden, while we continued 
straight across the field to the big gate by 
the bam. 

I cuddled close and the master talked to me. 

“That’s a great mother of yours,” he said, 
as he stroked my back with his big, powerful 
hand, “an’ you must try to be like her. She 
has more sense than most folks I know, an’ 
she’s a thousand times more loyal. She’s 
always the same, always true to every trust. 
Remember, Sandy, you come straight from 
Champion King Oorang, an’ your blood line 
is the bluest of the blue, even if you were 
bom on a farm. Your people, sonny, are all 
real dogs — not just tenderfoot show speci- 
mens.” 

He stopped speaking suddenly, and I 
looked out from under his arm, for I heard 
a great clatter. Down the lane came the 
horses, running pell mell for the bam. All at 
once I saw my mother slow up and fall far 
behind them. 

“See that, Sandy!” said the master to me; 
“see how she pulled back so as not to crowd 


34 


SANDY OORANG 


’em clear to the gate. You’ll have to do that 
yourself, some day.” And, sure enough, 
when my mother dropped behind, the horses 
slowed down so that by the time they reached 
the gate they were coming along at an easy 
trot. It was a pretty piece of timing all the 
way round, for the horses arrived at the gate 
and came to a stop just a minute ahead of us. 
Then the master opened it for them and they 
went on through and into the barn. 

My mother had stopped when she came up 
with us, and started to follow into the barn 
at the master’s heels. Suddenly she ran 
ahead and darted into the barn. I thought 
she was going to my brothers and sisters, 
but the master chuckled and said: ‘Til bet 
old Ben’s gone into the wrong stall again.” 
And sure enough that was it. When we got 
there my mother was just in the act of 
gently but firmly making a big black horse 
leave one stall and go into another. Then 
she pushed the door shut with her nose and 
waited there for the master to latch it. 

As soon as this was done, she knew that 
her work was over for the time being, and 
she went at once to our own stall. The 
master put me down, and all of us little 


SANDY OORANG 


35 


Airedales fell to work to secure another meal. 
But I never told my brothers and sisters that 
I had stolen a march on them and had had 
one alone a short time before. 

Even before he fed the horses, the master 
put fresh water in our stall and brought food 
for our mother. He had lots of valuable 
stock, but I believe he thought more of my 
mother than all the rest put together. And, 
as I look back on it now, I realize that well 
he might have loved her so. 


Chapter II 


Events moved rapidly from that time on, 
crowding themselves upon one another. Not 
that anything of especial importance hap- 
pened; but in one's formative period (which 
in dogs means only a matter of months, while 
in persons it represents as many years) things 
do move swiftly. During the year that 
followed I learned much that has been of 
great value ever since, and all the time I 
was learning I was also growing from puppy- 
hood to maturity. But I must be careful 
not to get ahead of my story. 

Along toward the middle of the afternoon 
of that same day of the “hog-ringing" which 
I have described, two men drove up to our 
place in what I have since learned was a 
motor truck. They came to the barn with 
the master, and straight to our box-stall. 
There they stood and looked at us as we lay 
in the corner with our mother. Finally one 
of them spoke. 

“They look fine, Bill," he said to our 
master; “eight of 'em, I see. Well, we'll just 

36 


SANDY OORANG 


37 


load ’em up an’ be gettin’ back ’fore dark.” 

“Eight pups in all — but only seven for 
you,” the master answered. “I'm keepin’ 
the runt.” 

Some discussion followed ; but it was finally 
settled, and the master picked me up and 
held me in his arms while my brothers and 
sisters were being carried from our box- 
stall to the truck where they were put into 
a crate. All this time my mother looked 
on with sad, understanding eyes, but with- 
out complaint; and from her I then learned 
another lesson that I have tried to remember 
always. We are all more or less creatures of 
circumstance and it is well if we realize that 
at times we must bow to the inevitable, 
bravely, and without complaints or bitter- 
ness. It was beautiful the way my wonder- 
ful mother accepted the situation that day. 
She did so in courageous silence, but I believe 
I can realize now, even more truly than I 
did then, what she suffered in parting with 
her offspring. For I know that she loved us 
all very dearly with her great mother-heart. 

As the truck drove away, she just stood 
and watched it until it had finally passed 
from sight. The master humored her in 


38 


SANDY OORANG 


her sadness and, still holding me in his arms, 
stood beside her. Some minutes after the 
truck had disappeared, he reached down and 
laid his big hand on my mother’s head, 
speaking then for the first time. 

“I know it’s hard for you, dear Queen, old 
girl; but you’ll be brave. You must be — 
an’ you always are.” 

She looked up at him, and her sad eyes gave 
back assurance that he might count upon 
the stoutness of her heart. I have never 
forgotten those eyes of hers — how they 
looked at that moment. The master may 
not even have noticed; but, being a dog, I 
did. They had lost their snap and charac- 
teristic terrier fire; only a great wistfulness 
shone in them. Then the master had an 
inspiration. He called her attention to me, 
and put me down on the ground beside her. 
The mother heart of her, filled to over- 
flowing, turned away from the seven who 
were gone and gave all her love to the one 
little son that yet remained. She licked me 
all over — and it made me feel jealously 
good to have her undivided attention. Then 
we all turned and slowly made our way back 
toward the barn. 


SANDY OORANG 


39 


I grew very rapidly from that time, due 
to the fact that I could get all I wanted to 
eat since I was the only one left. It wasn’t 
long after this that I had an experience which 
everyone seemed to esteem very highly, 
although I could never understand why they 
should regard my deed as being so unusual. 

The master’s little girl and I had become 
great chums, and we would play together for 
hours at a time. One day that winter when 
it was especially cold she begged that I be 
allowed to sleep in the house at night. The 
master objected, knowing only too well that 
this might help to make me soft. A good 
strong outdoors dog is not afraid of a little 
cold weather — he must accustom himself 
to it. But a pup, like a child, can be spoiled 
by too much ease. Besides, it wasn’t too 
cold in the box-stall, curled up beside my 
warm mother. The master knew all this; 
but, be that as it may, the little girl finally 
had her way. You know how it is. 

So that night a bed was made for me in 
the big clothes basket in the kitchen. The 
master insisted that this be placed as far 
from the stove as possible. He stood firm 
on this point. I remember how very near 


40 


SANDY OORANG 


I came to falling before temptation that 
night. I had a terrible desire to jump out 
of the basket and curl up close to that big 
kitchen stove. But when he had fixed the 
basket and put me in it, the master had held 
up his finger and said to me, very slowly: 
“Now — you — stay — there. Hear me — 
stay there. 1 ' I knew, from my mother, 
that I must always obey the master, and so 
I did not yield to that mighty temptation of 
the alluring stove. I thought of my mother 
and wondered if she missed me as I did her, 
and whether she was cold out there in the 
barn all by herself. In a short time, how- 
ever, I slipped off to sleep, and dreamed great 
puppy dreams of fields and forests. 

I do not know how long I slept, but some 
hours later a peculiar odor assailed my sen- 
sitive nose. It was an unpleasant, suffocat- 
ing smell and nearly choked me. I knew 
that it was smoke, but I could not under- 
stand what so much smoke as that was 
doing in the kitchen. It had never been 
there like that any time I had been in the 
kitchen before, and it certainly had not been 
there when we had all gone to bed that 
night. It must be all right, I reasoned — 


SANDY OORANG 


41 


probably just something I did not under- 
stand. Yet I wondered. Pretty soon I could 
tell it was becoming worse; it choked me 
so that I got out of the basket to find some 
place where I might escape it. But the 
smoke was everywhere. Then something 
inside told me — told me so surely that there 
could be no mistake — that there was some- 
thing wrong, and that it was up to me to 
give the alarm. 

I barked, but the smoke choked me. I 
ran to the door through which I had seen 
the master pass that night after putting me 
to bed. I jumped up against the door, and 
it pushed open. The smoke was not bad 
in the next room. I ran ahead, barking as 
I went. I bumped into a tiny table and 
knocked it over with a crash. That awak- 
ened the family. The master came running 
through an opposite door, calling: “What’s 
the matter — who’s there!” 

But by this time even a human nose could 
smell the smoke from the kitchen, and the 
whole family was up in a minute. There 
followed the busiest time you ever saw. 
Everybody was running and carrying water, 
working like very beavers. We were in the 


42 


SANDY OORANG 


country, remember, and had no fire depart- 
ment such as you have in the cities. The 
family finally beat out the flames, however, 
and quiet was restored. It was almost dawn 
by then, so we all just stayed up, being early 
risers anyhow and in no mood to go back to 
bed. 

“William," said the mistress, “do you sup- 
pose that pup was in any way responsible ?’’ 

“Well, yes, I do," he said, and then he 
reached down and picked me up, holding 
my face close to his. 

She looked at him sharply. “That's just 
what I thought likely," she said. “Well, get 
him out of here now, and let that be a lesson 
to us to leave him out in the barn hereafter, 
where he belongs. We might have been 
burned out of house and home." 

The master smiled, and held me all the 
closer. 

“I don't think you understand," he said. 
“Sandy was responsible — not for the fire, 
but that we were warned in time to be able 
to save this very house and home you speak 
of. A little longer an’ it would have been 
too late — nothing could have saved us from 
entire loss, an’ this mornin’ we’d be out in 


SANDY OORANG 


43 


the cold without a roof to cover us. The 
fire started from the chimney gettin’ too hot 
and the lath touchin’ it too close on one 
side. It’s lucky for us this pup was in the 
house — more so that he had sense enough 
to wake us as he did.” 

After that I was supposed to be quite a 
wonderful dog. Funny, how easy a reputa- 
tion comes sometimes, and how hard it is to 
get at other times. You may have it almost 
forced on you, yet again, even the greatest 
merit seems to go unrecognized and unre- 
warded. But such is the way of life. 

One day, about a week after the fire, I 
was walking down the road with my little 
mistress. Turning a bend in the road which 
brought us out of sight of the house, we came 
upon several strange looking wagons, each 
drawn by a very sorry pair of horses. The 
first three passed on slowly, but the fourth 
pulled up beside us. A big, dirty man who 
was driving began speaking to the little girl, 
and pretty soon he got out and came toward 
us. 

He held out a stick of candy and asked 
her if she didn't want to take a ride in the 
covered wagon. He started to pick her up 


44 


SANDY OORANG 


without waiting for her answer, and with 
that she began to cry. I knew that something 
was wrong. I did not like the man’s looks 
anyhow, so just as he had one foot on the 
hub of the wheel, I ran forward and grabbed 
him above the ankle, biting as hard as I 
could with my young jaws. 

The man let out a yell that could be heard 
a mile. It was evident he had not expected 
any such thing from me. But just the same, 
I held on for dear life. To give his attention 
to me, he had to put down the little girl, 
and she at once started to run back down 
the road, screaming harder than ever. I 
thought at first that someone from one of 
the other wagons surely would head her off, 
but they did not. Already more commo- 
tion had been created than they had counted 
upon, and they were well content now to 
get on without arousing more. 

Just the same, I still held on to the man’s 
leg. I had tasted blood, and the cries of my 
little playmate made me madder than ever 
at the big brute who was the cause of them. 
It had been better for me to have let go and 
followed my mistress. But I did not, and 
the man started to kick me with the heavy 


SANDY OORANG 


45 


boot of his free foot. Never have I more 
strongly felt the urge to kill than I did then. 
But I was just a pup — and was already 
taxing the extreme of my strength. I held 
on as best I could, but the kicking hurt me 
terribly, and pretty soon I lost consciousness. 

I do not remember anything after that, 
and have never known how I got home. I 
suppose either the master came and found 
me, or else some passing neighbor must have 
carried me. Whatever the circumstance, 
when I regained consciousness I was lying 
on a pillow under our kitchen table and my 
own mother was licking my face with her 
soft tongue. I did not see the master, but 
pretty soon he came in the door and even I 
could see he was so consumed with anger 
that he could scarcely trust himself to speak. 

“Well, they got 'em,” he said finally, “An* 
they're a bad lot of gypsies. I doubt, though, 
if they can hold 'em, 'count of there bein' no 
witnesses, an' them all claimin' no harm was 
meant to the kiddie. Only wanted to make 
friends, they say, an' give her a stick of 
candy an' a little ride. All the trouble 
started with the pup, they argue — if it 


46 


SANDY OORANG 


hadn’t been for him no harm would have 
been done. Course no one believes ’em, but 
we can’t prove the contrary. Yet one thing’s 
certain sure — I’m darn glad Sandy was 
there.” 

He came over and softly patted my head 
— never did his huge hand seem so gentle. 
While it rested there I turned my head so as 
to lick it. My mother reached over and did 
likewise. I was content. 


Chapter III 


When I had fully recovered from the 
kicking given me by the gypsy, the master 
began to take me in hand that I might 
gradually learn the various duties that a 
good dog can perform on a farm. He was 
always very careful and patient, but I doubt 
if I could have acquired the knowledge so 
rapidly, or ever have become so proficient, 
had it not been for the splendid help of my 
mother. In dog language which I under- 
stood, she always explained things so clearly 
that it was very simple to follow her example 
and imitate her every move when commands 
were given. 

By watching and listening — and trying to 
learn — I soon knew the names of the dif- 
ferent stock and could tell them one from 
another. I knew which were the horses, 
which the pigs, and which were the cows and 
which the chickens. It was a proud day for 
me when I found that I could tell not only 
horses from cows, but horses from horses. 
What I mean is that I knew one horse from 
47 


48 


SANDY OORANG 


another. Soon after learning their individual 
names, I learned which were their respective 
stalls. It was great fun to make Harry go 
into his own stall, and Dick into his, and so 
on. Of course, you understand, they usually 
wanted to do this and went of their own 
accord. But horses like to cut up and play 
tricks, just the same as you and I or any other 
animal. Sometimes, just for meanness — 
but more often just for a joke — the horses 
would go back from being watered delib- 
erately to the wrong stalls. That’s when the 
fun came in for mother and me — to make 
them switch back to the right ones. 

It was especially good fun to drive the 
cattle and sheep; yet the efficiency for which 
they gave me credit in this work was really 
not due me, for all that I may have learned 
was merely the most painstaking imitation 
of my mother, who was the finest stock dog 
I have ever seen around a farm. If any- 
thing at all were to be said in my behalf, it 
could only be that I was an apt pupil and 
tried to be a dutiful son. 

The mistress had never paid me a great 
deal of attention prior to the experience with 
the gypsies, but after that she esteemed 


SANDY OORANG 


49 


nothing too good for me. I began, however, 
to develop a fondness for her, for it is only 
natural to feel kindly toward those who love 
us. Thus it was that I came to be much 
with the mistress when duties for the master 
did not demand my presence elsewhere. 
The chickens were in personal charge of the mis- 
tress, and after a time she made it clear to me 
that they should be kept out of the gardens. 
I took great delight in helping her in this. 

One day she came out of the house and 
started to chase the chickens about every 
which way. Pretty soon I noticed she was 
trying to catch one in particular. I could 
not make head or tail of it, but the natural 
excitement of the chase made me all a- tingle 
to join in. I kept right at the heels of the 
mistress, but of course did not dare to show 
my eagerness to help. She was having a 
merry chase, however, and finally in sheer 
desperation gave me the word: “Catch him, 
Sandy !” I needed no second urging, but 
jumped forward and caught the chicken for 
her in a twinkling. 

That evening she seemed worried, and I 
heard her talking it over with the master. 

“I'm ashamed of myself, for I fear I may 


50 


SANDY OORANG 


have been responsible for his ruin. He’ll 
probably want to kill every chicken on the 
place now, since I encouraged him today,” 
she said. “Still, I was almost exhausted, 
and I just forgot my common sense.” 

“Well, I don’t know.” The master spoke 
encouragingly. “We’ll wait an’ see. Ordi- 
narily I should say you acted rashly. But in 
Sandy’s case, I do not believe the rule will 
hold. To encourage a dog to kill a chicken 
would work out disastrously nine times in 
ten — with Sandy it may be different. I 
am even inclined to believe that it will.” 

The mistress appeared much relieved, and 
you may be sure I promptly determined 
that she should never be given cause for 
worry on my account. In order, therefore, 
not to tire the reader by a long discussion, I 
will simply jump right to the point and say 
that when the master himself took me among 
the chickens next day, he found to his great 
satisfaction that I was none the worse for my 
experience of the day before and if he had 
even a secret suspicion that I might not be 
trusted with them alone, he gave no sign. 
Thus it was that I was permitted to continue 
in my care of them, keeping them out of the 


SANDY OORANG 


51 


gardens and so on — and I never gave cause 
to regret this confidence imposed in me. It 
was even strengthened, for the time eventually 
came when purposely the mistress would 
instruct me to catch a chicken for the table. 
All she did was to make it clear to me which 
one she had selected for the purpose, and the 
job was quickly and neatly done. 

During the late Spring we suffered from 
the depredations of a most tantalizing chicken 
hawk, which made away with a number of 
fowls from our barn yard. I wondered if 
there wasn't something I could do to put a 
stop to the marauder's plundering, but, lack- 
ing the ability to fly, it seemed a hopeless 
undertaking. 

In the center of the barn yard, however, 
there was a good sized pile of old lumber, 
and in the midst of this I dug out a slight 
excavation just sufficiently large to afford me 
concealment while lying in wait for the hawk. 
Sometimes I would spend hours at a time, 
never so much as moving a muscle, and 
always hoping the big bird would put him- 
self within reach of my jaws. The master, 
too, began to take an active interest in the 
affair, and one day in town he bought some 


52 


SANDY OORANG 


shells for his gun, loaded with number four 
shot. It became a question as to which of 
us would be the one to put an end to the 
inroads of the hawk. Of course I would 
have had small chance, except for the fact 
that it was the plowing season and the master 
had more important things to engage his 
attention. 

As I was lying one day very quietly in my 
little retreat beneath the lumber, a shadow 
drifted across the open space before me. 
Merely turning my eyes upward, I saw it 
was the wicked hawk. The chickens were 
feeding not ten paces away, directly in front 
of my place of concealment. It was the 
best chance I’d ever had — provided the 
hawk should attack so that I might be given 
a straight plunge for him. I braced myself 
against the lumber behind me. But my 
muscles were aching from the effort before 
ever the opportunity came. I felt each 
moment that I could not endure it longer in 
such a cramped position and under such a 
constant strain. It seemed as if that hawk 
would never make up his mind to attack. 
Around and around and around he sailed, 


SANDY OORANG 


53 


ever coming closer, but oh, how slowly! 
Then 

Without a flash of warning he swooped 
madly toward us. The chickens jumped and 
fluttered, but they would have been too late. 
In my anxiety I was almost too quick, but 
I held myself in check, not wanting to miss 
this chance which might never come again. 
As luck would have it, my counter attack 
could not have been timed more nicely. 
The hawk had no opportunity to turn his 
flight and get away — my teeth sank deep 
into his flesh in the very instant that his long 
claws were buried in one of our white leghorn 
pullets. I felt a great thrill as I realized 
fortune had favored me — that I had not 
missed. No hawk is a match for an Airedale's 
jaws — and it was only a moment until I was 
proudly carrying that great bird-thief out of 
our bam yard. At the gate I saw the master 
with his gun coming on a run from the house. 
He, too, had seen the hawk in the sky, and 
left his work in the fields in the hope of getting 
a shot. When he saw me, with the dead 
hawk hanging from my jaws, he was so sur- 
prised that he almost dropped the gun. 

“Now, how in tarnation did you manage 


54 


SANDY OORANG 


that, Sandy !” he exclaimed, in utter amaze- 
ment. “Beat me to it, didn’t you, old boy? 
But just how did you do it? That’s what 
I’d like to know!” 

There was great rejoicing in the household 
when it was learned that the hawk was dead. 
They teased the master a good deal over the 
fact that I with my teeth had killed the bird 
before he could do so with his gun. But it 
always seemed to me that the master did not 
appear to mind this at all. I think, in fact, 
that he rather liked it. At least that’s the 
way it always impressed me, though I do not 
know why. 

After the affair with the hawk, we did not 
miss any more chickens for a while. A month 
or six weeks later, however, we again began 
to notice a chicken missing every so often. 
The thief this time proved to be a rascally 
coon. One night when I happened to be 
out roaming around, I suddenly ran smack 
bang into his trail. The scent carried me 
straight toward our barn yard and I trembled 
with eagerness to catch him. It was such a 
hot trail that I felt sure I had chanced along 
just about in time. Before you could say 
Jack Robinson I saw him in the moonlight, 


SANDY OORANG 


55 


and ran for him as fast as my legs would 
carry me. The minute Mr. Coon got wind 
of me he made for the woods which lay off 
to the north across our big com field. 

That was a real chase! Although I had 
never run a coon before, I was so close when 
the race started that he had small chance of 
getting away. Yet he did double around 
in that field enough to show me how hard it 
would have been for an inexperienced dog to 
catch him if the coon had had just a little 
more of a start — for a coon is one of the 
cleverest animals on earth. At last, how- 
ever, I got so close that the coon gave up the 
idea of trying to fool me, and made a straight 
dash for the timber. It then became but a 
question of speed. I caught him just before 
he reached the old rail fence. 

Many times I had killed pretty big rats 
about the place. In fact, I had just about 
rid our farm of those terrible pests. Some 
I had caught myself, while others fell victims 
to the traps. All these the master allowed 
me to kill. You get a big monster about a 
foot long and he’ll bother many a dog, for 
such a rat is a mean thing to tackle. But 
I soon found that killing the mightiest rat 


56 


SANDY OORANG 


was mere play compared to that coon. He 
weighed fully twenty-five pounds, and every 
ounce of him was full of fight. Furthermore, 
he was fighting for his life, while with me the 
urge was simply that of duty, coupled with 
the joy of battle. It was cunning, courage 
and desperation matched against greater 
strength and the determination that is ever 
in the Airedale blood to kill whatever we 
tackle. But there is no need to waste words. 
I killed the coon. He put up a good fight, 
but that was all. He never had even the 
ghost of a chance to win. The blood of my 
ancestors saw to that. In justification of my 
act — should it need any — let me add that 
from that time we suffered no further regular 
loss of chickens during the rest of my days 
on the farm. 

Shortly after this experience, I had the 
opportunity of rendering the little mistress 
probably as great a service as when I saved 
her from the gypsies. I happened along just 
in time to see our cross old Jersey bull madly 
chasing her across the field. In great fear 
of being too late, I made straight for them 
with more speed than I had ever mustered 
before in my whole life. By sheer good luck, 


SANDY OORANG 


57 


I was just in the nick of time and turned the 
bull before he had quite reached the little 
girl. Then I kept crowding him so close that 
he had to give me all his attention, and she 
easily escaped over the fence. But no one 
ever learned about this episode. I couldn't 
tell, and wouldn't have if I could. And 
you may be sure the little mistress kept it a 
profound secret, for I happen to know she 
had been forbidden ever to enter that field. 


Chapter IV 


I have already had occasion to mention 
my belief that all of us in this world are more 
or less the victims of circumstance. In this 
connection I refer to my own kind and to 
others of the lesser animals, as well as to you 
who are God's chosen children. And so it 
came about that an unforeseen circumstance 
chanced to pave the way for the first of the 
several great adventures that have come into 
my life. 

The little mistress and I were returning home 
from a long afternoon of play in the big pasture 
by the woods. The day was just graying into 
dusk as we came to the turn in the road where 
months before we had encountered the gyp- 
sies. Right in the middle of the road stood 
a trim little automobile, and struggling to 
change a flat tire was the most beautiful 
young lady I had ever seen. She seemed 
not a little annoyed at her ill fortune, but 
stopped and spoke pleasantly to us as we 
passed. Of course, had the master been 
there, he would have helped her, but neither 

58 


SANDY OORANG 


59 


the little mistress nor I could do any good in 
such a case so, as it was getting late, we soon 
passed on. But the lady patted me while 
we were there, and her few kind words 
registered in my brain a voice that I knew I 
should never forget. Just as we were start- 
ing to leave, another machine drove up and 
stopped. A man of questionable appearance 
got out and inquired if he might be of any 
assistance. 

My inclination was to stay, yet that could 
not be, as the little mistress already was 
overdue at home. But as I trotted along by 
her side I kept thinking about that strange 
man whose looks I did not like. We were 
already in sight of our house, and had almost 
reached the lane, when from behind us my 
acute ears caught the sound of sharp words 
spoken by that now familiar voice. No 
possible harm could befall the little mistress 
now, so I allowed her to go up the lane alone, 
while I turned and ran back up the road 
toward the beautiful lady. 

The minute I reached the turn, I saw the 
strange man grab her arm, and heard her 
sternly command him to leave her. But he 
was evidently not inclined to do as he was 


60 


SANDY OORANG 


bidden. As I realized this, a furious rage 
again aroused in me the instinct to kill. 
And because I really meant just that, I made 
no sound as I ran toward them. You have 
probably often heard that you need not 
greatly fear the attack of a dog that barks; 
but of the one that does not — beware! 

So swift and so silent was my approach 
that neither of them heard me until I was 
upon them. The lady was struggling to free 
herself and her assailant was equally pre- 
occupied in trying to prevent her, which 
further accounted for the complete surprise 
of my attack. So deadly was my intent 
that I meant to spring straight for the man's 
throat. But anger had dulled my judgment 
of distance. I miscalculated and ran head- 
long into him I sought to destroy. Instead 
of severing the delicate cords of his neck, 
my teeth sank into the man's leg just above 
the ankle. This was painful enough, how- 
ever, to cause him to drop his hold on the 
lady's arm, and he shrieked wildly in the 
agony caused by my vicious attack. 

The man kicked at me with his free foot 
and shouted at me to let go. But I was too 
enraged to mind the kicking and was deaf to 


SANDY OORANG 


61 


his commands. The young lady was too 
confused to utter a word. But the man, 
finding that his kicking and crying were both 
useless, tried to drag himself to his machine 
to get away. This I easily prevented, merely 
by a little extra pressure of the jaws and a 
little more vigorous twisting and shaking with 
the muscles of my neck. Then, seeing his 
case was hopeless so far as I was concerned, 
he appealed to the lady for aid. 

"Call him off!” he cried, piteously. "He’ll 
kill me if you don’t!" 

"And you’d richly deserve it,’’ she answered, 
in a voice so cold I scarcely recognized it. 

But, as I look back on it now, I realize that 
she interfered none too soon when in the end 
she did speak to me and command that I let 
the man go. Before very much longer he 
would have fallen, and then I should quickly 
have changed my hold to a grip on his neck. 
It was instinct that told me to obey that 
voice, but in the heedlessness of my fury I 
did not do so at once. When, however, I 
finally felt her hand on my collar and heard 
her clear commands even through the deaf- 
ness of my rage, I released my hold. The 
mystery of it is that I so quickly obeyed her 


62 


SANDY OORANG 


whom I had never even seen only a few 
minutes before. But it was she for whom I 
was fighting. 

“Now, you,” she said, addressing the 
stranger, “get yourself away from here as 
fast as you can. If you do not go — and at 
once — if you even so much as stoop for a 
stick or a stone — then I shall immediately 
release him. And the next time I shall not 
call him off” 

By the way she spoke that last — so coldly 
yet so almost gently low — I knew she meant 
every word she said. The stranger, too, 
must have known it, for without a word he 
went straight to his machine and was soon 
speeding away. 

As soon as I made sure he had gone, I 
started at once for home, but the lady called 
me back. I went to her reluctantly, for the 
necessity for my protection having passed, 
I knew that duty lay in the direction of the 
farm where the master might have some 
work for me to do before nightfall. But the 
good lady would not let me go. She put her 
arms around my neck, held me close to her 
and spoke divinely kind words in my ear. 
Soon, however, I sought again to free myself, 


SANDY OORANG 


63 


because I knew I should go home. At first I 
think she did not understand my apparent de- 
sire to leave; but presently it dawned upon her. 

“Well,” she said, “if you are determined 
to go, I shall go with you. I want to see 
your master anyhow.” 

When we got near the house, I saw the 
master going to the bam and ran to him. 
The lady called and he waited for her to come 
up. After a little preliminary conversation, 
in the course of which she related briefly the 
circumstances that had brought us together, 
she came at him bluntly with the proposition 
that the master name the price at which he 
would sell me. I think his reply surprised 
her. He thanked her very politely, but stated 
positively that I was not for sale at any price. 
In spite of that, she persisted for a time, 
making several outright offers that even I 
was sure the master could not refuse. But 
he did — and so unequivocally that at last 
she gave it up. 

The master and I went back with her to 
the machine and helped her get started. 
As she drove off and waved us goodbye, I 
thought I should probably never see her 


64 


SANDY OORANG 


again; and somehow I felt sorry, for I liked 
her very much. 

The following Sunday morning, however, 
proved that I was mistaken. I was out in 
the yard playing with the little mistress when 
who should drive up the lane but the very 
same lady in the very same little car. She 
stayed for about an hour and had quite a 
visit with all the family. But I do not think 
she pressed any further that day her desire 
to acquire ownership of me. 

But the next Sunday she came again, and 
the Sunday following, and for several Sundays 
in succession. On the sixth visit she again 
approached the master on the subject. They 
had become pretty well acquainted by this 
time and had a long talk about it. 

“I know how you feel,” she said, “and I 
respect you for it. But I, too, have set my 
heart on Sandy and I am not going to give 
up until I have named an offer so big that 
you simply cannot refuse — it will mean so 
much to you in so many ways. My father is 
a very rich man and I have finally persuaded 
him to permit me to go the limit. Don't 
give me your answer today — talk it over 


SANDY OORANG 


65 


with your wife tonight — and I will drive 
out again tomorrow.” 

And that is how the first of several great 
changes came to pass in my life. She had 
named a price that the master simply could 
not afford to refuse, and that evening after 
supper his wife persuaded him to accept it. 
I fear all this may sound very conceited of 
me, but I am simply recording facts and I 
have given them as they were. I must 
confess, however, that the price paid for me 
was far more than any dog is worth. But 
it must be remembered that the circumstances 
gave me a singular value in the eyes of my 
new mistress. She wanted me at any price, 
and her wealthy, doting father could afford 
to gratify her every desire, however extrava- 
gant it might be. I trust this explanation 
may serve to save me from the suspicion of 
conceit when I tell that I brought one of the 
highest prices ever paid for a dog. 


Chapter V 


I soon learned that the name of the new 
family with which I went to live was Robert- 
son. I liked them all, almost from the first; 
and was soon perfectly at home with them, 
although, of course, their life was quite dif- 
ferent from that I had known on the farm. 
My new mistress, Miss Helen, I learned was 
a celebrated social favorite. We lived in the 
city, but I could romp at will in the freedom 
of a large yard. Still, it was a lazy sort of 
existence after that to which I had become 
accustomed; and I believe I would have tired 
of its monotony if — but I mustn’t get ahead 
of my story. 

Each Saturday afternoon Miss Helen took 
me in her little car and we drove out to my 
old home on the farm. This was a real treat 
— and oh! what a pleasure it was to see them 
all every week. One thing that I especially 
liked to do on these visits was to go out to 
get the cattle, and this I always did before 
we drove back to the city. I loved to keep 
my hand in, as the saying is, in this way. 

66 


SANDY OORANG 


67 


You may think it strange that I have not said 
anything about the joy of seeing my mother 
on these visits. It is simply because that 
does not need any comment. My love for 
her was almost a sacred thing — something 
in my heart too holy to be discussed. Nat- 
urally, my most tender memories are of her. 
And my keenest regret at leaving the farm 
was the loss of her constant companionship 
and the lack of her helpful hand in guiding 
me straight and shaping my future. For 
don’t ever forget this — dogs can go wrong, 
just as much as people. If now in my declin- 
ing years I can view my life with any measure 
of satisfaction, it is in the fact that my actions 
have always been influenced by the ever- 
present memory of my mother. 

It was not long after I went to live in the 
city that I became acquainted with the 
wonderful game of golf, which practically 
everyone seems to be playing these days. 
One reason I am sorry I am only a dog is 
because I can’t play golf. I truly believe it 
to be a game with a fascination more insistent 
than any other game men play. It exempli- 
fies, as some writer has expressed it, all “the 
lure of the game we love.” 


68 


SANDY OORANG 


I found out that the reason we always 
went to the farm on Saturday afternoons 
was because that was the day the men had 
the golf course to themselves and the ladies 
were not supposed to play. On other days, 
however, it was seldom that we spent the 
afternoons elsewhere than at the Country 
Club. It gave me considerable pride when I 
learned, one day, that Miss Helen was the 
best golfer of all the women, holding both 
our own club and the City Championships. 
It was some time, however, before I was 
given the chance to see her play, for she 
always commanded me to stay in the car 
while she was out on the course. But one day 
we went out rather early in the morning, as 
the mistress wanted to get in an hour or so of 
practice. There was no one about, not even 
the caddies, so I was allowed to go along. 
It was lots of fun watching her hit the ball 
so far and so straight down the middle of 
the fairway. 

The minute she drove the first one, I 
started to run after it; but she quickly called 
me back. Then I understood that those 
balls were not to be interfered with. Twelve 
of them in all had been driven before we 


SANDY OORANG 


69 


changed position. When the mistress finally 
picked up her bag of clubs and left the tee, 
I remained behind, mindful of the way she 
had checked my first impulse to run after 
the ball. But when she noticed that I had 
not followed, she called. And when I ran 
up to her she laughed in her same old way. 

“You aren't accustomed to my golfing 
mood, are you!" she chuckled. And then 
she added, still smiling: “Well, old boy, I 
suppose it does seem ridiculous to you now — 
but you'll understand, I know you will." 

When we came to where the balls had 
landed, I don’t believe there was twenty 
yards difference between the best drive and 
the poorest. I had a strong inclination to 
pick them up in my mouth, but Miss Helen 
nipped that thought in the bud with a word 
of warning. Then she took another club 
from her bag and proceeded to play the balls 
ahead again, one after another. When she had 
hit the last one in sight, she said: 

“I only counted eleven, Sandy, and I’m 
sure I drove twelve from the tee. One of 
them must have rolled down the side of the 
slope into the rough. Let’s go and see." 

I followed her over to the right, and she 


70 


SANDY OORANG 


began to look for the missing ball in some 
tough clover grass. All of a sudden I ran 
plump into it, and my nose told me it was my 
mistress’ ball. I stood right where I was and 
just wagged my tail until she noticed me and 
came over. I was afraid to touch the ball, 
being under the restraint of two commands 
to the contrary, but I looked straight down 
at it and wagged my stub of a tail all the 
harder when she arrived. The little white 
ball was almost hidden by the clover, and for 
a time she did not see it or guess what it was 
that interested me so. But I refused to move 
until she had seen it also; and when she did, 
I knew that I had pleased her. 

“Good work, Sandy!” she exclaimed. And 
when she laid down her bag and put her arms 
around my neck, I was repaid a thousand 
fold. For some reason, she picked this ball 
up instead of playing it, and started on after 
the others. I noticed that she had not picked 
up her bag and was uncertain whether this 
was intentional or otherwise. Still, there had 
been no command against touching the bag, 
so I very carefully took hold of the strap with 
my teeth and began to drag it along, feeling 
that the mistress merely had forgotten it. 


SANDY OORANG 


71 


Fortunately, it turned out that my guess was 
correct; and when Miss Helen turned and 
saw me pulling her bag of clubs through the 
clover, she laughed outright. 

“Well, of all things!” she exclaimed. “Sandy, 
you surely take the first prize. I do believe 
we'll make a golf dog out of you!” 

If any one thinks there could have been 
other praise to please me more, they have 
another guess. I have in my long life had 
many things to make me glad — but never 
has my cup of happiness run higher than it 
did that day. 

After that, I always accompanied my mis- 
tress during golf practice and she taught me 
many ways to be of help. Yet the most note- 
worthy occurrence happened on a day in June, 
1913, when Miss Helen went even beyond 
our own city and won the women's golf cham- 
pionship of the state. I must tell you briefly 
about that, for it proved to be a memorable 
occasion in my life. 

On two former occasions, Miss Helen had 
reached the semi-finals, but never before had 
she gone through to the finals in the state 
event. You may imagine, therefore, that 
before the big match that day there was 


72 


SANDY OORANG 


great excitement, not only in our own home, 
but in our city and our club. Every one we 
knew was keen for Miss Helen to win, and 
even I could sense the intense interest all 
about me. The only apparently unconcerned 
person in the entire city was Miss Helen 
herself. 

Due to the great popularity of my mistress, 
and to the fact that the tournament was 
played that year at our own club, there was 
an exceptionally large and enthusiastic gallery 
on hand to follow the finals through from the 
first tee. Mr. Robertson stayed away from 
the office all that day to watch Miss Helen 
play, and there was present also a new 
member of the family whom I had not met 
before that morning. I refer to Miss Helen’s 
brother, Bob, of whom I shall have occasion 
to write at length later on, and who had 
arrived home from college that very morning. 
Bob Robertson was on the golf team at 
Princeton and was reputed to be one of the 
best golfers in our state. 

It was a case of love at first sight between 
Bob and me, and we became fast friends. I 
went with him to watch his sister play. 


SANDY OORANG 


73 


“But if you take Sandy with you, Bob, be 
careful to keep him right to heel,” she cau- 
tioned, “for he’ll be trying to get into the 
game and may cause trouble if you don’t 
watch him every minute.” Then she told 
him about my golf experience with her. 

“Well!” And he laughed in a way that I 
grew to love, patting me as he added : “Seems 
as if you aren’t alone in golfing glory, Sis. 
But don’t worry about Sandy and me. We’ll 
take care of ourselves.” 

When Miss Helen drove away all by herself 
in her little car, I wanted to go with her, but 
she ordered me back. 

“Let’s start early and walk out,” Bob 
proposed to me a few minutes later, and we 
did so. The players were just leaving the 
first tee when we arrived. 

As soon as I saw Miss Helen I wanted to 
run to her, but Bob kept a watchful eye on 
all my movements and restrained any un- 
toward tendencies on my part with a quiet 
word of command which I knew I must obey. 
Hole after hole we followed the match, one 
of the hardest ever played for the women’s 
championship. Miss Helen was playing at 
the top of her game, but so was her opponent. 


74 


SANDY OORANG 


On several occasions when it seemed certain 
that my mistress had the hole won, a splendid 
long putt would draw a halve. Thus they 
went — always even — up to the last hole. 
That was when my little act came in. 

They had both played two splendid shots, 
where they needed three to reach the green, 
but Miss Helen's was hooked slightly into 
the rough at the left. Hers was the farther 
ball, however, and so the champion played 
first — landing just short of the trap guard- 
ing the green. This meant that she must 
either pitch her fourth shot dead, or sink a 
long putt, or fail to get her five. 

The players and gallery moved forward, 
but there was a silence that you could almost 
feel when Miss Helen's caddie failed to find 
her ball. One, two, three minutes slipped 
by. There were only two minutes left to 
locate that ball, or the match was lost. Yet 
I knew where it was! The question was, how 
I could slip away from Bob, who had been 
keeping me so closely to heel throughout the 
match. Quickly but quietly I backed away 
from him and out of the crowd. Fortune 
favored me, for Bob was so intent on watching 
the search for the ball that he did not see me 


SANDY OORANG 


75 


go. Before any one noticed me at all, I had 
circled to the spot where I knew the ball lay. 
Swiftly I quartered the ground, and in a few 
seconds froze into position with the little 
white ball right beneath my nose. Just at 
that moment Miss Helen's caddie saw me 
and ran over. 

“Here it is!" he cried. The minute he 
saw me he knew that I had it, for he was 
Miss Helen's regular caddie and had worked 
with me often. We had not been a second 
too soon, for the time was up at that minute. 
* The rest of the story is quickly told. My 
mistress laid her third shot on the green and 
followed with two putts for a perfect five. 
The champion tried hard, but her short pitch 
over the trap was not quite dead ; and although 
her putt lipped the cup, it did not drop. 
Thus a new State Champion of Women was 
crowned. 

I believe there was some complaint from an 
opposing faction concerning my part in the 
affair, but of course nothing came of it. 
There is no rule in all the history of golf that 
says anything about a dog, one way or another. 
The affair was not mentioned in my presence 
all evening by any member of the family, 


76 


SANDY OORANG 


but I did notice that my supper was just a 
bit more delicate than usual. And late that 
night, when all the others had gone to bed, 
Bob closed the book he had sat up to read, 
called me to him, and we went together to 
the ice-chest. There he poured himself a 
glass of milk, and gave me one of the chops 
intended for the family’s breakfast! 

“You sly old fox!” he said, and laughed. 
“You just wouldn’t let her lose by the route 
of a lost ball, would you? Gosh! I can see 
already that you and I are going to be great 
pals!” 

And I can tell you now that we were — 
as you will learn, very soon. 


Chapter VI 


That same summer of 1913 saw the begin- 
ning of many new experiences in my life. 
The friendship between Bob Robertson and 
me had developed into a beautiful thing, 
second only to my love for Miss Helen. 
Bob was a regular fellow — a real man’s man 
— and many were the wonderful hours we 
spent together. 

But, above all else, I want to mention that 
that was the summer which witnessed the 
last of my contacts with my good mother. 
We must all, of course, bow to the inevitable. 
When circumstances lead to a parting of the 
paths of families or close friends, there is 
cause for sadness; but one must face his 
future unafraid, no matter where the road 
may take him. Yet, if faith abides with one, 
all will be well — in the end. It may seem 
strange to hear such philosophy from a mere 
dog. Be that as it may, I have an unshakable 
faith that somehow, somewhere, I again 
shall see my mother — that I shall know and 
love her in another life more beautiful than 
77 


78 


SANDY OORANG 


any I could ever dream. Life would be a 
sorry thing indeed if even dogs could not have 
this trust! 

It was about the last week of August when, 
one day, I was put in a small but comfortable 
crate and taken in the station wagon to the 
train. I did not know what it was all about, 
but after riding on the cars for several seem- 
ingly endless days my crate was unloaded on 
a pier extending out into a great body of 
water. You may imagine my joy and sur- 
prise when the first person I beheld was Bob 
Robertson! He at once freed me from the 
crate, and it was mighty good to be able 
to stretch my cramped legs again. I wanted 
to run and jump and play, but Bob restrained 
me. He made me stay close at his heels 
because the pier was crowded and workmen 
were rushing to and fro, transferring baggage 
and freight from the train to a small steamer. 
It seemed to me then like a very large boat 
indeed, for it was the first I had ever seen in 
my life; but since that time I have crossed the 
ocean and realize how small it really was. 

We had not gone far down the pier when I 
spied Mr. Robertson, and I wondered if Miss 
Helen were anywhere about. I was glad to 


SANDY OORANG 


79 


see Mr. Robertson and to receive his kindly 
greeting, but there was one who was missing. 
I looked inquiringly up at Bob. Immediately 
he understood my unspoken question and 
said: 

“No, she didn't come this time, Sandy. 
We're going into the big woods on a wonderful 
trip — a trip Dad has been promising me 
for years — and I begged your mistress into 
letting you come along. We’ll fish for a 
while, and then try for moose. It’ll suit you, 
all right, or I’m no judge of dog character. 
Think of it, Sandy! For three whole months 
we’ll live out in the wilds, like Indians!’’ 

After a while, the boat pulled away from 
the pier and we crossed the stretch of water 
from Mackinaw City to Mackinac Island. 
I was greatly interested in the historic old 
fort which recalls the pioneer days of America. 
You probably have read how the Indians 
once captured this fort through strategy 
when they were playing at a game of ball 
outside its gates. The ball was made, as 
though by accident, to fall on the inside of 
the fort, and the Indians asked admittance 
through the gates on the pretext of securing 
it. As soon as they had gotten inside the 


80 


SANDY OORANG 


attack began, their weapons being concealed 
beneath their garments, and the whites were 
taken completely by surprise. Imagine how 
much more vivid the story when one stands 
actually behind those very gates which were 
innocently opened for the Red Skins that 
day so long ago. It gave me quite a thrill, 
I can tell you, even though I am only a dog. 

Early the next morning we took the steamer 
Chippewa for Sault Ste. Marie, or the 
“Soo,” where we arrived about four o’clock 
in the afternoon. Here we spent the next 
day outfitting, and at nine o’clock on Wednes- 
day morning we were aboard the Algoma 
Central and all ready to pull out into the 
heart of the northern wilderness. I mean 
we were ready. The train was not. In 
counting noses the conductor missed one of 
his passengers, and waited for half an hour, 
until the belated trapper put in his appear- 
ance. Then there was a toot from the engine, 
the train began to move, and in a few minutes 
we had left the Soo behind and with it the 
last of civilization we expected to see for 
ninety days. At last we were in the heart 
of Algoma’s woodland wonderland. 

After riding for six hours through an almost 


SANDY OORANG 


81 


unbroken forest, the train stopped for us 
near one of the most beautiful little lakes in 
the world. Bob ran up to the baggage car 
and there were handed out to him our canoe, 
two boxes of groceries, blankets, pots, pans, 
kettles, and other camping accessories. Then 
the train pulled on, while we just stood for 
several minutes and surveyed the mass of 
stuff that it would be the duty of Mr. Robert- 
son and Bob to get down somehow to our 
cabin. The cabin itself we had not yet 
located, but soon found a trail and followed 
it to see where it might lead. 

We had not gone very far when right 
ahead of us, just a couple of feet to the 
right of the trail, we saw a big cock partridge. 
We certainly realized then that we were in a 
country very similar to that which your 
forefathers found and fought for so many 
years ago: a virgin wilderness, such as makes 
one's thoughts soar high if he has the right 
sort of stuff in him, be he dog or man. 

A few feet beyond we came to a turn; and 
there, before our eyes, stood the cabin home 
that was to be ours for the next three months. 
With a shout of joy Bob ran ahead of us. 
In it we found all that one could desire — 


82 


SANDY OORANG 


plenty of chairs, two tables, a stand for the 
wash basin, six bunks with balsam mattresses, 
and four kerosene lamps. At last the great 
day of Bob’s dream had come — the promises 
of years were fulfilled for him in that cabin 
camp, and he was about to taste the life for 
which he had always longed. 

Soon Bob seemed to have absorbed enough 
of the spirit of the wilderness to be ready to 
go back and tackle the job of toting the 
canoe down that trail from the track. He 
peeled off his shirt to strip for action, and 
perhaps imagined he was standing in the 
shoes of one of the followers of Pere Marquette 
— and when he picked up his burden he 
handled it as though it actually seemed light ! 
As Bob stamped down the trail with the 
canoe, he almost poked its nose into the 
back of that same old partridge. It strutted 
slowly across the path, followed by several 
hens that we had not seen before. 

After taking the canoe to the water’s edge, 
Bob hurried back to bring the rest of the 
things. He opened the largest and heaviest 
box and his father carried its contents down, 
one at a time. All the other boxes Bob 
carried himself, intact, as would your native 


SANDY OORANG 


83 


woodsman. At home he’d have balked at 
the job, but up there he seemed to love it. 
Strange, isn’t it, what a difference one’s 
environment can make? In less than no 
time we were comfortably settled in our new 
home. 

Then Bob said he’d go back and get one 
of those partridges for supper. But the 
trouble was, we hadn’t yet gotten any of the 
guns unpacked. Bob sallied bravely forth, 
however, armed only with his short barreled, 
five-shot revolver, confident of his ability to 
* ‘knock them cold” at such close range. In 
a few minutes we came across the partridge 
sitting stubbornly on the self-same log. Bob 
immediately drew forth the trusty shooting 
iron and opened fire from a distance of five 
feet. At the first shot the enemy just ruffled 
up his feathers and looked stolidly ahead in 
the opposite direction. Bob pulled again, 
this time with more favorable result, for the 
old fellow condescended to turn “right about 
face” and look him squarely in the eye. This 
insult was too much! Bob pulled the trigger 
again, twice in rapid succession. With the 
fourth shot the hens crept forth from behind 


84 


SANDY OORANG 


the log to see what it was all about, and I 
think their lord and master even cocked one 
eye. Bob quickly pulled the trigger again — 
twice; but the last only clicked, showing that 
more ammunition was required. He shouted 
to his father to bring the cartridge belt. 

“I don’t think you can hit them with that 
revolver,” Mr. Robertson called back. 

But Bob pleaded with him and Mr. Robert- 
son brought the ammunition. The game, 
however, had become disgusted and would 
not wait. Right under our very eyes they 
strolled slowly away, without even deigning 
once to look back. This threw Bob into such 
a rage that, as soon as more cartridges arrived, 
he reloaded the smoking weapon and charged, 
firing as he advanced. It seemed only a 
second before the empty click again answered 
the pressure on the trigger. He reloaded 
quickly and the attack was renewed. These 
maneuvers were repeated several times, the 
only change in the tactics of the birds being 
that they finally took to the trees instead of 
remaining on the ground — in order, I am 
now convinced, the better to view the pro- 
cedure of hostilities. They squatted on the 
very lowest branches, so that Bob easily 


SANDY OORANG 


85 


could have reached up and pulled them 
down; but this he would not do. The smok- 
ing weapon grew hot in his hand, but he was 
nothing daunted as charge followed charge. 
This much at least must be admitted — Bob 
was gaining ground; the quarry was retreat- 
ing — slowly, it is true, but none the less 
surely. 

The battle, however, was brought to a 
sudden end. There came a click, following 
which Bob noticed that even the cartridge 
belt was depleted. He then turned back 
reluctantly, and in manifest disgust, and we 
made our way to the cabin, much crest- 
fallen. The old cock partridge followed us 
for some distance — but turned back when 
Bob shook his fist at him and shouted: 'Til 
get you yet, with the rifle!" 

Just as we finished our evening’s repast we 
had the pleasure of entertaining a visitor — 
the fire-warden for the railroad. His real 
name I hesitate to publish, but we will call 
him “Wildwind,” a name which we later 
found he sometimes goes by in the Algoma 
wilderness wonderland. The object of the 
fire-warden’s visit was to caution us against 
the greatest enemy of the woods — FIRE. 


86 


SANDY OORANG 


Thousands of miles of splendid forests are 
annually laid waste through the carelessness 
or ignorance of campers. Words simply can- 
not express the seriousness of the matter of 
fire in the woods. The destruction it wreaks 
is beyond power of description; but even 
worse than this is its utter uselessness, for in 
nearly every case of a forest fire the cause 
has been an incompletely extinguished camp- 
fire or a carelessly thrown cigar or cigarette. 
If you ever have occasion to light a fire in 
the woods, be sure that it has been com- 
pletely extinguished before you leave. Too 
much emphasis cannot be placed on the 
word SURE. Leave nothing to chance — 
countless fires have been fanned back into 
fury by mere breezes, even though those 
who built them may have left confident that 
they had been safely extinguished. The 
only safe course is to drench the embers with 
water so thoroughly that there can be no possible 
chance of anything rekindling them . 

But, returning to the subject of partridge, 
we had partridge for supper the second night! 
No, Bob didn’t shoot it. It happened thus: 
Bob and I were walking down the track, when 
suddenly he stopped and looked to the right. 




McIntyre, Smith — and Sandy 






















'i 






















SANDY OORANG 


87 


There stood a beautiful big partridge. Bob 
didn’t have the trusty old five-shooter with 
him just then. Furthermore, let me add, this 
fellow was fully twice as far away as any of 
them had been the day before, when he was 
armed with the shooting iron. But Bob 
reached down and found a stone that just 
suited the feel of his hand, and let fly with it. 
It had hardly started on its way when I knew 
intuitively that it would be a hit. On an 
impulse, I ran to where I knew the big bird 
had fallen; and sure enough, there it lay, 
stone dead. I took it up in my mouth very 
gently and with great pride laid it at my 
master’s feet. 

“Sandy, boy, you’ll be a great retriever!” 
Bob said encouragingly, as he picked up the 
bird. 

After supper that evening, Bob told his 
father that it was the best tasting fowl he 
had ever eaten. If you don’t feel inclined 
to believe him, just get one yourself some 
time — with only a stone and your good 
right arm for a weapon, and at that distance 
(notice I’m not saying just how far) — and 
see for yourself. Understand me, it doesn’t 
put the taste in them so much if you shoot 


88 


SANDY OORANG 


them; unless, of course, it is with a short 
barrelled five-shooter. Again that’s different. 

When we encountered the partridge, we 
had been on our way to see Sam Smith, the 
trapper whose shack was just across from us 
around the lower bend of the lake. After 
returning home with the bird, Bob and I 
started back on our original mission. At 
the trapper’s he told of the exploit that had 
just occurred. Mrs. Smith at once offered 
him her little .44 shot gun, in order that we 
might bag another partridge and so be sure 
to have enough for our evening meal. Bob 
accepted with thanks, and inquired if she 
wouldn’t like to have a brace of partridge for 
herself. She would, so he promised her three. 

I don’t know why one little gun should so 
effectively have frightened every single par- 
tridge out of the woods, but so indeed it 
seemed. Bob and I walked for two hours 
and didn’t so much as see a bump on a log 
that looked like a partridge. With his prom- 
ise in mind, of three for Mrs. Smith not to 
mention another for ourselves, he was quite 
upset. We returned to the shack and my 
master asked for the loan of the trapper’s 
dog, which he had heard was especially good 


SANDY OORANG 


89 


on partridges. I, of course, was yet wholly 
without experience in this art, and, besides 
helping us to bag some game, Bob knew 
that watching the trapper’s dog work would 
be splendid training for me. 

We were readily given permission to take 
Toby — that was the name of Smith’s dog 
— with us, and then we bravely sallied forth 
again, renewing the promise that the Smiths 
should have three of our birds. For exactly 
two hours and fifteen minutes we fought our 
way through the bush, and not even Toby 
could locate a solitary bird, though she 
worked tirelessly. We returned late, tired 
and chagrined, returned both dog and gun 
with our thanks, and sheepishly found our 
way back to the cabin where the one partridge 
Bob had killed with the stone was ready and 
waiting to be eaten. 

Certain sentiments that I may express in 
this book may strike you strangely as coming 
from a dog, but I must nevertheless mention 
my rapture as the wonderful spell of my first 
wilderness twilight came upon me. I remem- 
ber particularly one of those first nights when 
I stayed late outside the cabin door, dumb 
with the wonder of it all. The wild blood 


90 


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of my ancestors seemed to be calling to me 
through the years. Softly the gentle water 
was patting the shores, itself a wonderfully 
mysterious blue set in a background of dark 
forest. The hour was that, bewitching and 
all-too-short, when the gray of the late day 
merges into the dark of the oncoming night. 
And then, as I was about to come indoors, the 
moon stole out and shone down upon the 
little lake — and me, it seemed. I lingered 
still longer. My thoughts took flight, and 
I dreamed. It was late when I finally 
scratched on the door of the cabin, and Mr. 
Robertson let me in. Bob was already in 
his bunk, fast asleep. He probably was 
dreaming, too — but at a time and place 
like that, I think it is one’s dreams while 
awake that are the most delicious. 

Within a day or two we had learned from 
Sam Smith, who follows his trap lines on 
snow shoes all through that country every 
winter, that one can canoe in almost any 
direction for mile upon mile from the lake 
where our cabin was located. Each little 
lake in that region is surrounded by hills 
which are covered by the almost impenetrable 
“bush;” and all one has to do is to go over 


SANDY OORANG 


91 


the tops of these hills, and invariably he will 
find another lake, almost within a stone’s 
throw of the last. One need merely know 
where the hidden portage lies ; but this 
knowledge is confined to a fortunate few. 

It was one of the greatest pleasures of our 
outing to explore for portages to new lakes. 
Almost every day we did this. On our 
second day in the woods we found the portage 
from our lake to the next one nearest it, 
which is sometimes called McCalley Lake 
and sometimes Little Moose. Never have 
I seen anything more enchanting than 
McCalley Lake. While slipping quietly along 
through a narrows, we spied our first deer — 
a dandy little buck — standing in the edge 
of the water at the foot of some pines. He 
did not see us at once; but he was in no 
danger, for the season had not yet opened 
and neither Mr. Robertson nor Bob would 
break the law. But the sight of him made 
the blood leap in my veins, for love of the 
chase was bom and bred deep in my very 
bones. But, as I say, the deer that day was 
safe. In another minute he spied us and, 
with a leap, was off through the timber. 

Only a beaver dam separates McCalley 


92 


SANDY OORANG 


Lake from Moose Lake, and Bob pulled our 
canoe over it to extend our tour of explora- 
tion. Toward the far end of Moose Lake 
we found an ideal shore of solid rock, on 
which we built our fire to cook lunch. It 
was a fine landing place, as the water dropped 
deep straight from the foot of the rock and 
the canoe could be pulled in close ashore. 
The invitation was too tempting; so while 
his father built the fire and got the lunch 
ready, Bob pulled off his clothes and took a 
plunge into the crisp, cool water. You may 
be sure I jumped right in with him, for an 
Airedale loves to swim almost above all else. 
All day in the canoe I had been longing for 
just this thing. It was more invigorating 
than any tonic ! Perfectly wonderful — so 
clear, so cool, so fresh! After that, all three 
of us — even Mr. Robertson — went in bath- 
ing every day, sometimes in one lake and 
sometimes in another. This practice we con- 
tinued until about the third week in Septem- 
ber, when the water became too cold for the 
two men. After that, I took my plunge 
alone. 

The blueberries were not so plentiful that 
year, but the big, ripe red raspberries were 


SANDY OORANG 


93 


splendid — at least, that’s what my masters 
said, though of course I did not eat them — 
and all one could use were to be had for the 
picking. I heard Bob and his father say 
that they taste best when one goes out in 
the early morning and picks them for his 
breakfast — that it adds to the zest of the 
eating. And they really are better under 
those conditions, they say. It is not just 
imagination. At our cabin we had red rasp- 
berries in every shape and form imaginable 
— just as picked, with sugar; stewed; as a 
jam; and in pies. They never seemed to 
tire of them, except the pies, which I noticed 
they abandoned after the first two attempts 
at baking. 

One day Sam Smith took his wife and little 
daughter in his canoe, and we went with 
them in ours, for a trip through several of the 
lakes. Upon reaching the far end of Moose 
Lake, the trapper conducted us to a portage 
leading from Moose Lake to another that 
has never been named, and whose very exis- 
tence is all but unknown. The portage 
trail was indistinct and very rough; many 
trees had fallen across what had once been 
its path, and it probably is not used by any 


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man once in five years. It made one think 
of the time when the early Indians probably 
used it. And the most glorious wonder of 
it all was that the country we were in still is 
as unblemished as it was in that remote age, 
hundreds of years ago. Thanks to our guide, 
we learned where there were to be found 
several other secret portages, which we had 
great fun in exploring from time to time 
during that wonderful vacation. 

At the same end of Moose Lake there is a 
cabin. In it are a stove, all the utensils one 
requires in the woods, and a large supply of 
cut wood. The cabin is unoccupied except 
for three or four days in the year. There 
we had our lunch. Afterwards, Smith drove 
the nail back in the door lock and left it in 
as good shape as when we had entered, 
except for the use of a small quantity of the 
firewood. Such is the way of the forest. 

You have heard how easy it is to become 
hopelessly lost in the bush. Well, it is even 
easier than that. Of course, not for a dog, 
because we have our God-given sense of smell 
which never fails us; but for you who do not 
have this gift, too much caution cannot be 
exercised. Sam told us that just the winter 


SANDY OORANG 


95 


before he had heard shots one evening about 
two hundred yards from the cabin. Feeling 
that someone was lost, he went to the door 
and fired an answer. The other party replied, 
so Smith went back indoors, confident that 
whoever it was would soon approach. No 
one came. In a little while he went to the 
door and fired again. There was no answer. 

The next morning the man was located on 
an island two lakes further on, roaming 
aimlessly around and temporarily out of his 
head. Not knowing it, he had been following 
his own tracks around the island almost all 
night along. The miracle of it was that he 
had crossed over from the mainland on ice 
that would not bear his weight next day! 
It was just one of God’s mysteries. The 
man who was lost had not even known he 
was crossing water on ice; and, had he broken 
through, nothing more would ever have been 
heard of him. The remarkable part of it 
was that this man had been born in a cabin 
in the woods, and had roamed the bush all 
his life. Yet even he lost his bearings. 
Certain landmarks not looking familiar in 
the dusk, he lost faith in his compass, believ- 
ing it had gone wrong — and that very 


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SANDY OORANG 


nearly proved the end of him. Do you see 
how careful one must always be in the big 
woods? One must keep his wits about him, 
and never lose his head. If he is led off his 
course in following a moose or a deer, he must 
above all things keep his bearings. 

Wiki wind’ ’ was always telling the Robert- 
sons great tales of his prowess in matters 
pertaining to bear and beaver. He told one 
worth repeating. It may be easier for you 
than it was for us to believe, because, having 
met “Wildwind,” we are entitled to an opin- 
ion of our own. But we shall not allow that 
to detract from our accuracy in reporting 
the story as it was given us. 

It seems that, one day the preceding fall, 
‘ Wild wind” had discovered a beaver in one 
of his traps and was hauling it in when, all 
of a sudden, he was unaccountably attacked 
by a bear from the rear. He jumped up, but 
his gun, it seems, he had left some twelve or 
fifteen feet away, by the side of a large rock. 
As the bear rushed, “Wlldwind” jumped high 
in the air, the bear passed directly under 
him, and when the fire-warden landed he was 
right by the side of his gun, which he imme- 
diately seized and shot the bear dead with 


SANDY OORANG 


97 


the first ball before it had time to turn and 
charge again. All I ask is that you remember 
this is “ Wildwind’s” story — not mine. 


Chapter VII 


One morning, “Wild wind” appeared at our 
cabin before we had finished breakfast and 
said he had come to help us “catch a nice 
mess of trout.” Bob gladly accepted his 
generalship, and the first use he made of it, 
was to substitute Bob’s leader and six beauti- 
ful flies for a solitary hook. Then he pro- 
ceeded to the shore to find several little frogs 
for bait. These he said he preferred to any- 
thing else. The first frog we saw was just 
too large for trout bait and “Wildwind” 
enthusiastically exclaimed, “Gee, look at that 
there big one! Wouldn’t his legs make fine 
eatin’ though!” 

This seemed to strike Bob as strange, for 
in reality the frog in question was a tiny 
fellow in comparison to the kind with which 
he had been familiar. He mentioned the 
fact. The fire-warden was much interested 
in Bob’s description of how he used to spear 
frogs at night along the banks of Old French 
Creek, where any one of them would be 
bigger than all the frogs on Spruce Lake put 


98 


SANDY OORANG 


99 


together. I knew, of course, that he was 
stretching the point a good deal, but it made 
a good story to tell “Wildwind.” To say 
the least, it was a fitting mate for some of 
the stories the fire-warden was forever tell- 
ing us. 

To create the deepest possible impression, 
Bob proceeded with his story in infinite detail. 
The way he used to get them, he said, was 
with a frog-spear about six or eight feet long. 
The hunter always spears at night, and 
fastens a gasoline torch in the front of the 
boat, just back of which he places a large, 
bright tin reflector. By means of this he 
blinds the frogs in such manner that they 
can be easily speared by rowing close along 
the bank of the stream. One person does 
the rowing while the other stands in the 
front of the boat with the spear. 

Bob told about one night when another 
boy and himself speared seven dozen big 
ones within a stretch of less than five miles, 
selling them to the hotel for a large price. 
He said it was an ample supply for their 
Sunday menu. That same night they also 
speared several fish and two fine turtles. 
One of these turtles they also sold to the 


100 


SANDY OORANG 


same hotel, for soup. The other one got 
away — the story is worth repeating just as 
Bob himself told it to “Wildwind” that day 
up in the woods. 

It seems that by the time they reached 
home that night everyone had gone to bed and 
the little town was in total darkness. There 
were no lights such as bum all night long 
in the cities. The only light they had with 
which to work was the gasoline torch in the 
boat. One of the turtles was dead — but the 
other was not; so, having nothing adequate 
with which to kill it, they decided to tie it 
up until morning! 

They teased it into grabbing hold of the 
end of a stick, and then pulled until they 
had its neck stretched out full length. Then 
they made a collar with the end of a long 
rope they had in the boat. Not satisfied 
with this, they tied the rope also around each 
of the turtle's four feet. By the time they 
were through winding the rope around that 
turtle, it must have looked as though it had 
been woven into an Indian basket. Then 
they tied the end of the rope to a stake and 
hitched their prize securely — as they thought 
— for the balance of the night. But in the 


SANDY OORANG 


101 


morning the turtle was gone! Bob said they 
never heard afterward whether or not any- 
one around there ever caught a turtle that 
was all wrapped up from head to foot with a 
lot of rope, but whoever may have done so 
must have been a surprised sportsman. 

I thought “Wild wind” never would stop 
laughing at the description of that turtle. 
As for frogs, he had no more to say. We found 
lots of little fellows, however, and soon had 
a goodly supply of trout bait. Then we set 
forth. Our master of ceremonies sat in the 
front of the canoe with rod and bait, I occu- 
pied the center, and Bob paddled in the rear. 
Mr. Robertson did not go with us. We were 
out all morning and there wasn't a likely 
looking trout hole that we did not visit. 
But we got only five fish. They were fine, 
speckled trout, however, and we were satis- 
fied. They were enough for a meal, which 
was all we needed for one day. The truest 
joy from either hunting or fishing is never 
measured merely by the size of the bag. 

That same afternoon, as I remember, we 
could see that a rain was coming up and Bob 
had to hurriedly chop enough wood for the 
stove against the possibility of a storm that 


102 


SANDY OORANG 


might last for several days. It would be a 
serious thing to be out of dry stove wood in 
our cabin, for the nights and mornings espe- 
cially were always cold — not to mention the 
need for cooking — although the days at 
that season were delightfully moderate. This 
matter of keeping a cabin in firewood is no 
child’s play — but it is wonderful exercise. 
To be able to handle an ax properly is an art. 
Every boy ought to learn how to take an ax 
and fell a tree. You will be proud, I assure 
you, when you fell your first one. But 
don’t attempt it until you have mastered 
this most interesting of all tools. Otherwise 
you will wear yourself out with ten strokes. 
Bob felled a nice birch and split it up into 
pieces small enough to dry easily and, inci- 
dentally, to fit the stove. Then the rain hit 
us. Thanks to Bob’s trusty ax, however, 
we were prepared for it. The balance of the 
afternoon we watched the storm. Nothing 
is more fascinating than a storm on a wilder- 
ness lake. 

Then — as sudden as the snapping of a 
picture — the rain stopped and the sun 
jumped forth in full blaze from behind a 
cloud. Bob took a little pail and I went 


SANDY OORANG 


103 


with him to gather red raspberries. In half 
an hour we had enough berries for both supper 
and breakfast. And that is how one lives 
when in the wilderness, a hundred miles from 
civilization, depending for food very largely 
upon what he can find or catch, whether 
growing or running wild. 

After several days of doing nothing in 
particular except to enjoy the intoxicating 
freedom of life on a wilderness lake — such 
things as getting up early, paddling a couple 
of miles and cooking breakfast in some open 
space along the shore, picking enough berries 
to eat and keeping ourselves in wood for 
the stove; just loafing, as it were — my 
masters decided to take the canoe and spend 
the day over on the next lake. 

In a little cove on the far shore of McCalley 
Lake we discovered what bore evidence of 
at one time having been a portage. We 
decided to explore it. Bob carefully took our 
bearings by the compass and, blazing the 
trees with the belt ax as we proceeded, we 
made our way into the forest. About half 
a mile in we came to an old tote road and 
followed it some distance to the right. This 
brought us in time to a marshy pond, where 


104 


SANDY OORANG 


we found numerous moose tracks. As we 
stood trying to decide whither to proceed, 
two little squirrels scolded us incessantly. 
They were laughable — and not a bit afraid. 

Bob said he thought we must be close to 
another lake, which we could probably see 
by rounding a bend. His father disagreed 
with him. The only way to decide it was to 
explore further and find out. This we pro- 
ceeded to do, but it was very bad walking. 
Bob led the way, I followed, and Mr. Robert- 
son came last. Presently we arrived at a 
bad place where the only apparent way 
through was to walk along a very slippery 
log which lay half buried in the water of the 
pond. I had crossed over, and so had Bob. 
His father was standing on the far end wait- 
ing to follow us, when suddenly he lost his 
balance and went over backward, sinking 
up to his neck in the water. That settled 
the exploring party then and there. Not 
such a great deal was said, but it was said 
positively, and we all started back over the 
trail. 

Bob was very proud of the certainty with 
which he led us back by following the blazes 
he had made on the way in. As we came 


SANDY OORANG 


105 


to a place from which we could see through 
the bush the bay on McCalley Lake where 
we had left our canoe, we saw a fine bull 
moose about a hundred yards to the right. 
Bob whispered to his father, who was carry- 
ing the camera, to hand it to him. But it 
proved to be useless. Its recent immersion 
in the water, when Mr. Robertson had fallen, 
had put it out of commission. Nevertheless, 
we had proof that we were in real big-game 
territory and had evidence of what might 
be expected when the season for moose 
should come in. 

On the way home after lunch we discovered 
the mouth of a cute little creek, and nosed 
the canoe into it for a short distance. Then 
we were stopped by a beaver dam. We did 
not pull over it, however, as it was growing 
late; but we determined upon the further 
exploration of that creek on another trip. 

During the night it grew pretty cold, and 
in the morning Bob felt it would be a good 
day for trout. We decided to try our luck. 
Just as we were about to start, “Wildwind” 
came whistling along the trail (he always 
whistled to keep up his courage when alone 
in the bush) and asked if he might join us. 


106 


SANDY OORANG 


We were glad to have him. Before we had 
been out very long, however, the wind came 
up too strong for good fishing, so we started 
home. As we passed Sam Smith’s cabin, his 
wife told us the trapper had gone fishing 
down on Tamarack Lake. We tied up the 
canoe and walked over the portage to the 
other lake in search of him, to see what luck 
he was having. The fish were biting fairly 
well on Tamarack Lake, and we stayed until 
almost one o’clock before returning with 
five nice speckled trout for each of us. 

Bob had an amusing experience that day. 
While we were sitting, very quietly, my 
master was suddenly startled by a dandy big 
moose which had come down to the water on 
the opposite side of the lake. He’d rather 
get a good moose picture than catch a trout 
any day (which, of course, is purely his per- 
sonal inclination) and as Tamarack Lake is 
very small and the sun was just right for it, 
he stealthily reached for the ever-at-hand 
camera which lay right behind him about 
four feet higher up the bank. Then — would 
you believe it ! — just as his right hand grasped 
the camera, there was the prize pull of the 
day on his line, and between trying with one 


SANDY OORANG 


107 


hand to keep that fool trout from getting 
away with his fine rod, and holding on to the 
camera with the other, the moose took alarm 
at the confusion and dashed away into the 
bush. The trout at the same moment, man- 
aged to get off the hook. Of all possible 
hard luck — Bob got neither the fish nor the 
picture! He did save the rod, but for two 
days he cursed that trout. 

In the cabin that evening, Mr. Robertson 
read from an old Montreal paper of a nasty 
experience that had occurred within a few 
miles of our lake. A young man about 
thirty years of age had missed the trail not 
far from his cabin, got headed in the wrong 
direction, and soon became hopelessly lost in 
the woods. For three weeks, having neither 
gun nor matches, he lived entirely on berries. 
Finally, within sight of the north shore of 
Lake Superior, he found himself too weak to 
go further, and laid down to die. Two men 
were portaging a canoe. Their way became 
blocked and they separated to try to dis- 
cover the best way around. They decided 
to call to one another every few minutes to 
prevent getting separated and lost. The 
young man heard them and raised his voice 


108 


SANDY OORANG 


with feeble effort. Thus he was found and 
saved. He was too weak to stand at the 
time, and his clothing had been tom to shreds 
in his wanderings. Had it been winter, he 
would not have lasted three days. As it was, 
he had been in the bush three weeks, had 
not seen a single man, had kept alive solely 
on berries, and had reached his last atom 
of endurance when found. This was a true 
story, and it shows that there are still many 
portions of the wilderness that have not 
changed appreciably in a thousand years. 


Chapter VIII 


The next morning was the fifteenth of 
September — the beginning of the open sea- 
son on ducks in Algoma. All of us — Mr. 
Robertson, Bob and I — were up at dawn and 
headed, they with shotguns, for Tamarack 
Lake, where we hoped to find game. We 
returned about eight o'clock for breakfast, 
empty handed, but with the best appetites 
to be found on two continents. Nothing 
can so prepare one to relish his food as a 
brisk hike through the damp dew of early 
morning. Nothing is more conducive of 
vigor. Though we had not seen any ducks, 
we had heard them across a watery marsh 
on the west side of the lake. The mist hung 
too close and dense, however, for us to see 
at any great distance. Yet neither of my 
masters seemed to care, being far more inter- 
ested in being out at such a time and in such 
a place, than in getting a duck for dinner. 

To the east the sun was struggling to throw 
his rays into that barricade of mist; and, for 
a long time, the mist seemed to offer defiance 
109 


110 


SANDY OORANG 


almost on even terms. It was a marvelous 
contest to watch, as the god of light and heat 
and power tried to break through to kiss the 
lake. Off in another direction the moon was 
retiring, and we watched her as she withdrew. 

After breakfast there came a knock at the 
door, and we wondered who it could be. 
Callers are far from frequent in that country. 
It was McIntyre, Sam’s trapping partner, 
who wanted to know if Bob would like to 
accompany him and his mate on a hike 
to Three Loon Lake. Not to keep them 
waiting, Bob merely threw a can of beans and 
a cake of chocolate into the sack, and was 
ready. McIntyre told him he might take 
me along if he wished, so I went. 

It was to be an exploring trip, I soon dis- 
covered. The trappers wanted to study the 
country in the hope of being able to find or 
make a portage by which to get a canoe into 
this lake from some point on Moose Lake, 
which lies almost direct west of where they 
were. Three Loon Lake lies west of south. 
The trappers felt that there must be some 
point between the two that could be por- 
taged. If so, there was an old cabin on 
Three Loon that they intended to fix up and 


SANDY OORANG 


111 


use part of the time during the coming 
season. This very uncertainty will indicate 
the character of the country in which we were, 
much of it still being practically unexplored 
to this day. Some there may have been, at 
one time or another, whose canoes may have 
covered or whose feet may have trod many 
parts of it. But when — or who they may 
have been — is not a matter of record. 
And the last so to do may have been dead a 
hundred years! It is this original quality 
that makes the country so engaging. 

We had not gone four hundred yards from 
the Smith cabin that morning when McIntyre 
called Bob's attention to some fresh moose 
tracks — a big bull, a cow and a calf — which 
on examination Sam claimed could not have 
been older than a few hours. After travel- 
ing about two miles we came to the first 
logging camp that we had seen. It consisted 
of a cook-cabin, a sleeping-cabin, a stable- 
cabin and a bath-cabin. This last, when its 
mysteries had been described, was the one that 
interested Bob most, for there was no water 
anywhere in sight, this camp being half- 
way between Three Loon and Spruce Lakes, 
and two miles distant from either of them. 


112 


SANDY OORANG 


But Bob soon learned that the “bath” 
did not necessarily imply the use of water! 
The predominating feature of such a bath- 
cabin is a very large fireplace, but with no 
chimney. In order to let out some of the 
smoke, there are a few very small holes cut 
through the logs at the sides — never at the 
top, where it might escape too easily. Over 
the fireplace, which is built of large rocks, 
great piles of smaller stones are heaped. The 
process of “bathing,” then, is as follows: 
A huge fire is built and allowed to bum until 
the stones are fairly sizzling with heat, some 
of them even red hot. The hot smoke circles 
around the cabin before the worst of it finds 
its way gradually through the meagre outlets 
provided. Into this fume-laden inferno ven- 
tures the bather, without a stitch of clothing 
— only a jug of cold water. The water is 
to drink; it plays no other part. The person, 
or persons, taking the bath simply sit and 
perspire, drinking cold water all the time. 
This perspiring constitutes the bath. When 
they come out, the process is either immedi- 
ately to rub dry with a big towel, or first roll 
in the snow to cool off and then use the towel. 
Sometimes, when the bath-house can be 


SANDY OORANG 


113 


situated along a lake, a chute may be built, 
down which the bather slides into the ice-cold 
water as a substitute for a roll in the snow. 
There are two objections to this, however. 
One is that it is difficult to keep the ice cut 
sufficiently in winter to permit of the plunge; 
and the other is that this brings water, in a 
sort of minor way, into the operation — and 
there seems to be quite a prejudice up there 
against having water play any part in bath- 
ing. Water has two other much more impor- 
tant functions to perform, namely to drink 
and to float canoes. 

About two miles beyond the first lumber 
camp, we passed through a country which 
had been devastated by a forest fire. While 
it is always sad to consider the waste this 
means, to wild life as much as to the timber 
itself, yet in this case the disaster had its 
advantages from a standpoint of picturesque 
beauty. We were on very high ground, and 
the naked trees enabled us to see for many 
miles in every direction. And as far as the 
eye could see there was nothing but virgin 
forest — no fences, no houses, no settled spots 
— nothing but timber land, sprinkled with 
thousands of tiny lakes along the shores of 


114 


SANDY OORANG 


which, here and there, may be found a 
trapper’s cabin. We came to a turn, and 
off to the right, many feet below us, lay 
Three Loon Lake. 

Suddenly Sam stopped and, pointing to 
the left, asked if we could not see water 
through the trees. Close scrutiny revealed 
that there was no doubt of it. Yet that 
was the first time Sam had ever noticed it, 
although he had trapped in that vicinity all 
the preceding winter. But never before had 
he chanced to be in exactly the right position 
to notice it from the trail. We decided to 
investigate this new body of water on our 
way home, and we did. 

It was now time for lunch and we stopped 
for it at a vacant logging camp on the nearest 
shore of Three Loon Lake. It was a some- 
what smaller camp than the other, the bath- 
cabin especially being very much smaller. 

After lunch, we made our way through the 
brush to the cabin of which we had been told, 
which lies near the point of a long peninsula 
that juts far out into Three Loon Lake, 
dividing it almost in half. This was the 
cabin Sam Smith was planning to occupy 
part of the coming winter. The previous 


SANDY OORANG 


115 


season it had been the home of a Finlander 
and his family. Bob seemed much interested 
in several stray articles strewn about, espe- 
cially two planes that were quite apparently 
hand made. One was of such peculiar shape 
and character that he inquired what could 
be its use, and was told it was a tool to plane 
the groove in the bottom of skis. This 
groove, as you may know, runs the entire 
length of each ski and keeps it from slipping 
sideways. 

Over cleared spaces, such as frozen lakes, 
a good man on skis can pass with remark- 
able rapidity. He carries a stick in each 
hand and, besides sliding his feet along, adds 
extra impetus by pushing with the sticks. 
Thus he will cover a small lake before a man 
on snow shoes has fairly gotten started. 
But snow shoes are the thing to use through 
timber, as the skis are too long to control. 
Not far from the cabin we found a fine pair 
of skis. These had been hand made. The 
Finlanders are exceptionally clever craftsmen. 
These skis had so evidently been discarded 
that Sam stood them up on end against a 
tree on which he notched his mark. Thus, 
for such is the unwritten law of the woods, 


116 


SANDY OORANG 


they would remain untouched by any who 
might chance to pass by, unless the original 
owner himself should return to claim them. 

Two loons kept calling persistently just 
off the point. It was evident they were not 
far out and Bob was anxious to test their 
reported ability to evade a gun. A loon, you 
know, is almost impossible to hit, as they 
duck under water with the rapidity of light- 
ning. Bob took Sam's .44 Winchester and 
started as quietly as possible through the 
brush. He said that if he could get one he 
would have it mounted. 

“Wait until just as they raise up to flap 
their wings," Sam cautioned. “You can’t 
hit them any other way, for they’re under 
and gone before the bullet is ten feet out of 
the barrel.’’ 

McIntyre went along to witness the test, 
and I quietly followed. Soon we could see 
both loons very close together, calling away 
for dear life, absolutely unaware of the 
presence of danger. Bob took a tree rest 
and drew careful bead on the nearer one, 
then waited for the time when he should 
raise up to shake himself and flap. As the 


SANDY OORANG 


117 


big bird failed to do this, however, my mas- 
ter grew impatient. 

“Well, just for luck, try him anyway," 
McIntyre whispered, which was exactly what 
Bob had decided to do. No one could pos- 
sibly have taken more careful aim, and when 
absolutely “on him," Bob pulled the trigger. 
There was a crack and a puff of smoke. Then 
— so quick as to be almost simultaneous 
with it — I saw both loons disappear. Per- 
haps a tenth of a second later Bob’s bullet 
struck the surface of the water with a splash, 
glanced, and sailed on its way into the forest 
beyond. Both loons were well under and 
away by that time. 

“By jiminy, but that was a good try!" 
It was McIntyre who complimented the effort. 
“You dug up the water exactly where he was." 
And that was true; but my master also 
learned that it is true, as they had told him, 
that you can’t hit a loon in the water unless 
you pull the trigger just at the one moment 
I have already mentioned. 

When we returned to Sam, all three of the 
men compared compasses and discussed pos- 
sibilities for a portage to and from Moose 
Lake and Three Loon. It was too late to 


118 


SANDY OORANG 


attempt a real exploration effort for that 
day, however, especially as our companions 
were anxious to investigate the new water 
Sam had noticed when approaching Three 
Loon Lake. It was felt, too, having con- 
sidered it from all angles, that the best plan 
would be to go at it from the other direction, 
by taking a canoe into Moose Lake and work- 
ing in from there with enough equipment 
and provisions to devote a full week to it, 
if necessary, camping each night wherever 
darkness might find them. This interesting 
trip the trappers determined to start upon 
the following Monday, and they invited Bob 
to accompany them, should his father 
not mind remaining alone at the cabin. Of 
course they would have invited Mr. Robert- 
son as well, but there would not have been 
sufficient room in one canoe, and they did 
not care to be handicapped by two. 

Having arrived at this decision, we started 
homeward, branching off from our direct 
course just enough to investigate the new 
water. After breaking brush for some little 
distance, a terrific odor assailed us. 

‘‘Well, we’re getting close to something 
anyway,” McIntyre remarked. 


SANDY OORANG 


119 


It proved to be the carcass of a big bull 
moose that had been dead for some time. 
A little beyond, we saw the “new” water. 
It was a beaver lake of rather unusual size. 
As the place bore evidence of great possibili- 
ties, and much recent beaver-work, the trap- 
pers blazed their mark on several trees to 
hold it for their trap line. 

A little further on, when we had stopped 
for a moment, McIntyre noticed a large duck 
swimming some distance away and, as Bob 
had a shot gun along, he was anxious to get 
it. As he started to wind his way through 
the brush to get closer, the duck heard him 
snap a branch, and took to wing. But it 
had mistaken the direction of the sound, and 
was coming straight at us! Bob waited, 
hidden, and, as Sam afterwards said, the 
duck almost flew down his gun barrel. Bob 
did not shoot as it was coming on, however, 
but waited for it to pass. Then, as it was 
sailing away, he fired, and down went the 
duck into the middle of the lake. 

“Now, how are you going to get it?” the 
trappers both asked. 

“Shall we make a raft?” Sam inquired, for 


120 


SANDY OORANG 


the. water was dead calm and there seemed 
no other way. 

“Not on your life!” said Bob. “I'll swim 
out first. Tell me, could you send Toby in 
to fetch it, if he were here?” Toby was Sam’s 
dog, and had been left behind. 

“Well, that’s one thing on which I don’t 
believe I’ve ever tried her,” Sam admitted. 
“How about your dog — will he go get it?” 

I had seen the duck drop and was anxious 
to go for it. Bob had never yet had occasion 
to send me into the water for dead game; and 
I could see that for a moment he was reluctant 
to order me, lest before the trappers I might 
not do it and so cause him embarrassment. 
So I myself gave him the urge. I ran to the 
water’s edge and looked out to where the 
dead duck floated; then I whined, to show 
Bob my eagerness to be ordered in. It had 
the desired result. 

“All right, Sandy, old scout, go get it — 
fetch dead duck — fetch .” 

The order had come, and I dashed in after 
the duck. When I swam back with it and 
dropped it at the feet of my master, I believe 
he was more pleased than with anything I 
had ever done for him before. This, of 


SANDY OORANG 


121 


course, was because the trappers were pres- 
ent. It made a hit with them, too, and they 
praised me highly. But in reality I had, of 
course, done nothing to speak of — my ances- 
tors had been famous retrievers for years and 
years before ever I was bom. 

Bob decided against leaving his father 
alone, so he did not go with them; but the 
trappers had a great time on their trip to 
find a portage from Moose Lake into Three 
Loon. Finally they accomplished their pur- 
pose, ending with a carry of only about six 
hundred yards. They were gone three days 
and two nights. They traveled light, and 
foolishly took no blankets. The first night 
they spent in an old logging cabin and, sleep- 
ing in their clothes but with no covering, they 
nearly froze. In the middle of the night they 
got up chilled to the bone and built a roaring 
fire in the “bath-house,” where they slept 
comfortably the remainder of the night. 

From compass calculations, they selected 
the spot on Moose Lake that they figured 
ought to be about the closest point to Three 
Loon, then struck into the brush and over a 
hill. And there before them lay the lake 
sought to reach! But the hill was high and 


122 


SANDY OORANG 


the brush was so very thick it would be hard 
to clear a suitable portage. Four times they 
plowed their way back and forth over that 
hill, finally giving it up as unsuitable. Going 
back to the canoe and paddling further west, 
to seek some other spot for a passage, they 
struck a new beaver dam. The water behind 
it seemed to lie in the right direction, and 
they pulled the canoe over the dam. Soon 
they came to a little beaver lake, and at the 
far end of this struck into the brush again. 
Not more than six hundred yards ahead they 
came to Three Loon Lake. 

They cleared a splendid portage on the 
way back to the canoe, which they then 
brought over and paddled to the Finlander’s 
old cabin. There they left the canoe, and 
walked back home over the same tote road 
by which we had gone there with them a 
few days earlier. Thus had they accom- 
plished their purpose of getting a canoe into 
Three Loon Lake. Everything had worked 
out to a nicety, following a precision of cal- 
culation that is the necessary foundation for 
all such undertakings. 

The following Monday they went back to 
spend a week, this time taking Mrs. Smith, 


SANDY OORANG 


123 


her small daughter, and the two dogs with 
them. McIntyre took Toby and walked 
over by way of the tote road. We heard 
him shoot five times before he got out of 
hearing, and knew somebody would be eating 
partridge for supper. Mr. and Mrs. Smith 
went by canoe, taking a small stove and all 
the provisions, not to mention the daughter 
and dog, the latter being Toby's small son. 
We waved them goodbye as they passed our 
cabin. 

About a half hour later, Bob and his father 
suddenly decided to take a day’s paddle them- 
selves. I think that day was the most enjoy- 
able of the many we had. It required only 
a few minutes to get lunch ready, and we 
were off. As we came to the McCalley Lake 
side of the first portage, we saw the Smiths 
not a great distance ahead. We had almost 
caught up to them because, with their heavy 
load, they had had to make two trips over 
the portage. We came up to them at the 
beaver dam which separates McCalley and 
Moose Lakes, and we paddled through Moose 
Lake together. They wanted us to go with 
them to Three Loon, but Mr. Robertson was 
anxious to explore in another direction. 


124 


SANDY OORANG 


We had not gone more than a quarter of a 
mile in Moose Lake when a flock of some 
fifty or sixty ducks arose from the water just 
out of range. They made such a noise as 
they splashed up that at first I thought it 
could not possibly be less than a whole herd 
of moose. The ducks flew off into a bay to 
our left, but we did not bother them — then 
— as it would take too much time. 

Toward the end of Moose Lake we left the 
Smiths. They told us that, by taking the 
canoe over a dam, we would find a tiny creek 
that leads into a beautiful little unnamed 
lake. This we did, and Bob said that creek 
was one of the most picturesque streams into 
which he had ever pushed a canoe. Along 
its shore we found an old boat made from a 
hollo wed-out log. Bob wanted to paddle 
it and have his picture snapped in that pos- 
ture. But the “boat” was hardly more than 
a foot wide, and the rower would have to 
balance it like a bicycle. At that, I believe 
my master could have done it, had the boat 
not been almost half full of stale water from 
the heavy rains and thus so heavy it was 
almost impossible to get it out on the bank 
to dump it. As we were anxious to get on, 


SANDY OORANG 


125 


the camera was snapped on the old thing 
just as it was. But no mere picture could 
do justice to that odd craft. Who had made 
it and left it there we never discovered. 

A real treat was in store for us when we 
came to the lake, it so perfectly exemplified 
the spirit of the wilderness. What it may 
some time, if ever, be definitely named I do 
not know; but Mr. Robertson proposed that 
we call it WILD LAKE. We thought we had 
crossed Wild Lake when we came to a very 
narrow part, but it proved to be no more 
than a tiny strait, for the lake soon opened 
up again and we passed one of the prettiest 
little islands one could imagine. It would be 
a perfect spot for a cabin, for anyone wishing 
true wilderness seclusion and not minding 
inaccessibility. 

Paddling to what at last proved to be the 
further extremity of Wild Lake, we came to 
a beaver dam, on the far side of which the 
water was quite swift for a short distance and 
the channel hardly wider than the length of 
the canoe. As it appeared to be navigable, 
Bob pulled the canoe over. Then he got in 
first and turned the nose of the canoe 
upstream, so his father could get in with the 


126 


SANDY OORANG 


least possible inconvenience. But Mr. 
Robertson was not so active as his son, and 
he slipped on a log and went into the water 
up to his waist. It took quick work on Bob's 
part to save the lunch and guns and to keep 
the canoe from turning over. But what's a 
little wetting in the wilderness! It’s just a 
part of the game. 

Not a great distance further down this 
little creek we came to a second beaver dam, 
and beyond that the water was not more 
than twice the width of the canoe itself. It 
wound this way and that through what 
seemed to be an interminable moose swamp. 
The water was both shallow and narrow. 
Rushes grew higher than the canoe on either 
side; but it looked engaging, so we went on. 
It was interesting. We continued for about 
two miles, unfortunately however, not seeing 
any big game. Finally we came to still 
another beaver dam. We ate lunch right in 
the canoe; then, as it was time we were turn- 
ing back if we were to get home before dark, 
my masters were obliged to curb their inclin- 
ations to go on. Furthermore, Bob said he 
was anxious to get one duck for dinner, out 
of the bunch we had passed in the morning 


SANDY OORANG 


127 


on Moose Lake. But that one duck we 
almost did not get ! 

When we got back to Moose Lake, we 
came upon the ducks about where we sup- 
posed they would be, and they flew ahead 
to a marsh at the end of a bay. Bob was 
glad of this, for he knew that when we crowded 
them they would fly back past us. And so it 
proved. When we drew near, up they came, 
veritable swarms of them, headed back toward 
the open lake. Some were flying and some 
running over the water with the most deafen- 
ing clatter, churning the water and flapping 
the air. 

Not realizing that he only had one shell in 
his gun at the time, Mr. Robertson selected 
a sleek duck as his special mark. But it was 
a hard, right-angle shot, and he missed. 
And worse — the ejector jammed, so that he 
could not extract the dead cartridge. The 
ducks seemed to surmise such a condition, 
for they came by us thicker than ever. Still 
my master worked with that obstinate gun, 
first one and then the other trying his hand 
at it. Bob spoiled a knife and bent a fork 
in forty different directions. Finally he 
shoved the shell out with the fishing rod. 


128 


SANDY OORANG 


It almost ruined the rod — but what did he 
care! He cared little enough for fishing, at 
best, and that day he was after ducks. But 
by the time he had the gun properly loaded, 
there was not a duck to be seen. So we 
turned about and started to paddle on back 
home. 

It was Mr. Robertson who saw him. He 
happened to look back to make some casual 
remark. Instead, he whispered excitedly: 
“Grab the gun, Bob! Here comes the king of 
all the ducks, right behind you!” 

Bob didn’t shoot head-on, but let the big 
duck pass, when he saw the way it was headed . 
Then he let go. Never have I seen any bird 
drop so quickly. It didn’t even flutter, but 
fell straight down and landed in the weeds 
on the tiniest island imaginable. We paddled 
to the spot where it had dropped, and Bob 
started to get out and find his prize. Down, 
down Bob went — and pulled his leg back 
into the canoe mighty quick. It was a 
floating island! It was lucky that he had 
started to get out one foot at a time. Other- 
wise we might not have gotten out of the 
situation so simply. In complete disgust, 
my masters decided to give up the duck, 


SANDY OORANG 


129 


but that vexed my Airedale persistency. 
I made my displeasure manifest by every sign 
in my sign-talk vocabulary. 

“But how can you get Sandy into the 
water without upsetting the canoe ?” Mr. 
Robertson’s objection was voiced in no uncer- 
tain terms, when Bob indicated to his father 
my evident desire for a chance to retrieve the 
duck. 

“You just slip off your seat, father, and 
sit right down in the bottom of the canoe, 
as far front as possible. I’ll help Sandy out 
over the stem. In that way we won’t upset, 
for Sandy has sense enough to be steady — 
although I admit, as you say, it would be 
risky to try to put him out over the side.” 

Thus was I launched from the canoe into 
the open waters of Moose Lake. Bob picked 
me up in his arms, all the while kneeling in 
the canoe, and very carefully lifted me right 
over the end, until I slid, very gently, from 
his arms into the water. 

Then I swam a few yards to where I 
thought the duck had fallen on the floating 
island. I pawed away at the stuff, but could 
gain no footing whatever, and hardly knew 
what to do. Soon a whiff came to my nostrils 


130 


SANDY OORANG 


that told me the duck was there sure enough, 
but a few yards farther to the left. As I 
swam to this point, the scent grew stronger 
and I knew the duck was not far away. 
Still I could not quite reach it. As I whined 
in eagerness, Bob read the message thus 
flashed to him and ran the nose of the canoe 
as far as possible into the tangled mass of 
floating stuff. Then, suddenly, he spied the 
prize just out of arm’s reach; but he could 
touch it with the tip end of the paddle. 

It was a slow process, but he finally worked 
the duck to a place where I could reach it with 
my teeth and carry it to the canoe. The 
question then arose what to do with me. 
I solved it by striking out for the nearest 
shore. It was a splendid swim and I enjoyed 
it every inch of the way. No dog loves the 
water more than an Airedale. The canoe 
slowly followed me to shore, where I was 
again taken on board, and we resumed our 
interrupted journey home. 


Chapter IX 


Only a few days later, a circumstance 
occurred that altered my destiny for the next 
few years beyond possible anticipation. I 
had trotted up the trail with Bob to the 
railroad track, to see if any mail had been 
thrown off for us from the morning train. 
There did not seem to be any, and we were 
just starting back when I noticed a yellow 
envelope caught in one of the berry bushes. 
I seized it with my teeth and carried it to 
my master, who quickly tore it open. He 
stared at it a few moments in silence, and I 
learned from his manner that something was 
terribly wrong. I leaped up and put my 
forepaws on his thighs. Abstractedly his 
hand strayed upon my head. Then he read, 
aloud: 

“HELEN SERIOUSLY ILL. THINK YOU 
AND BOB BETTER COME HOME.” 

Pulling himself together with a sudden 
effort, Bob dashed back to the cabin, so fast 
that even I had to run to keep up with him. 
McIntyre was there when we arrived, but 

131 


132 


SANDY OORANG 


Bob seemed not even to notice him as he 
handed the message to his father. He almost 
shouted: “We have less than an hour to 
catch the down train — and we must make it.” 

Mr. Robertson did not waste time to answer, 
but how the pots and pans did rattle as they 
threw the things into the packing cases ! 
McIntyre paddled across the bay for his 
partner and they were both soon back, and 
quietly assisted my two masters in every way 
in their terrific rush to catch that train. 
Just fifty-five minutes later everything had 
been brought in, even the canoe, and was 
piled up by the track in readiness for the 
train. 

Then it was that, seemingly for the first 
time since I had handed him that yellow 
envelope, Bob remembered me. But my 
feelings had not been hurt. I knew how his 
heart was centered upon one thought, and 
mine was with his. I wanted to see my 
mistress, too. I believe I wanted to see her 
as much as did even her father or Bob. But 
what a dog wants may not always be. So 
often we cannot have our way, but must 
merely bear our suffering in silence. Yet we 
suffer, nevertheless. 


SANDY OORANG 


133 


“Great Scott, father, how’ll we handle 
Sandy on such a rush trip as this’ll be!” 
Bob suddenly exclaimed, as it dawned on 
him that no provision had been made for me 
in the hasty preparations. 

“I swear I don’t know, Bob,” his father 
started to answer. But he was interrupted 
by the engine’s whistle at the bend just half 
a mile away. There was no time to lose, 
and McIntyre made the determining sugges- 
tion. I had no choice in the decision. 

“Of course you can take him right along 
with you until you reach the Soo,” he said, 
“but from there on it will be hard to take 
proper care of him on such a trip. Why 
don’t you just leave Sandy here with Sam 
and me? We can send him to you later, 
whenever you write us to do so.” 

I am sure Bob never would have consented 
to the suggestion for a minute if it had not 
been for the great rush in which they were 
leaving and the anxiety he felt for his sister. 
As it was, however, he made the decision 
impulsively. I was to be left with Smith 
and McIntyre. 

Just then the train pulled up and all was 
hustle and confusion. The canoe and baggage 


134 


SANDY OORANG 


were quickly thrown on board, and my 
heart stopped within me as the engine started 
again, carrying my masters away and leaving 
me behind them in the heart of the wilderness. 
Soon the trappers spoke to me — kindly, I 
must confess — • and in sadness I followed 
them back to their cabin around the bay. 

The next day marked the beginning of 
my life as a trapper’s helper in the woods. 
I have never known, but I feel sure that Bob 
must have written to them for me, possibly 
several times, yet no such word was ever 
received. That really is not so strange, 
however, for in the Algoma wilderness mail 
is simply thrown from the train along the 
track and in many cases is blown away by 
the wind into the woods and lost forever. 
Getting mail up in that country is very largely 
a matter of luck — unless, of course, one 
meets the train as it passes and sees where 
one’s mail is thrown. This the trappers 
did not do, as mail of any sort was an uncom- 
mon occurrence to them. So it may have 
been that any word Bob sent regarding me 
never arrived and I just stayed on, waiting 
for the day when he should come back in 
person for me, as I felt sure he would. 


SANDY OORANG 


135 


In the meantime, except for my loneliness 
for my loved ones, I was having a glorious 
time. The wild life was just to my liking. 
In the north woods the transition from 
summer to the long, frozen-in winters comes 
quickly; and in almost no time, it seemed, 
after the departure of Mr. Robertson and 
Bob, we were in the midst of the trapping 
season. 

One morning I awoke to find the woods 
all white. The first blanket of snow had 
fallen, to remain for months to come. A 
little later, the lake froze over and more 
snow came, and then the entire region for 
endless miles was covered without a break. 

Out came the snow-shoes and the sled that 
each day must go over the trap line to bring 
home the furs. They rigged up a harness, 
and Toby and I pulled the sled, hitched tan- 
dem. It really was lots of fun and I enjoyed 
the invigorating, dry cold. My dense coat 
was as fit for it as if the far North had been 
my native home. Not even the wild animals 
themselves have a better coat to resist the 
cold than has an Airedale. I found, too, that 
it is easier to travel in the North in winter 
than in summer, because the underbrush is 


136 


SANDY OORANG 


buried beneath several feet of solid frozen 
snow, and one can go right over it. Each 
night Toby and I pulled home a sled heavily 
laden with valuable furs. 

I must confess that the trappers both tried 
to take the best of care of me, since I was not 
their own dog and they felt a responsibility 
to Bob in my behalf. But one day I had a 
terrible fight; and I am still amused to think 
of their fright lest I get injured. Yet they 
need not have worried, for I have always been 
well able to look after myself — though, true 
to my breeding, I have never sought trouble, 
but instead have always tried to avoid it. 

Toby and I, as well as her small son, slept 
in the cabin at night, and the first thing each 
morning Sam let us out and fed us even before 
he had his own breakfast. 

One especially bitter morning Toby and 
I were outside eating, when along the trail 
I saw a strange man coming toward us on 
snow shoes. In dog language Toby told me 
he was a fur buyer, so I went right on eating. 
The next thing I knew there was a big wolfish- 
looking dog right upon us. He made a lunge 
for Toby’s food, since she happened to be 
nearest him. She promptly dashed in and 


SANDY OORANG 


137 


grabbed his foreleg. At that moment the 
strange dog’s master got there ; and McIntyre 
came out of our cabin door and called me 
back just as I myself was about to spring in to 
Toby’s aid, for I keenly resented this attack 
upon my sled-mate and pal. The three men 
soon parted the fighting dogs. The stranger 
was an Alaskan huskie — and Toby was put 
inside the cabin away from further trouble. 

The fur buyer, whom they called Jack, 
tied his dog to a sapling, and the three men 
went inside, taking me with them. But 
Toby’s pup was left outside. The little 
fellow must have resented the attack upon 
his mother, for the next thing I knew I heard 
him snapping at the big dog tied out there. 
I do not know if the wolf-dog would have 
bitten him or not, but I heard him growl in 
a way I did not like. I had formed a great 
fondness for that spunky pup, and my anger 
rose as I heard that ominous warning sounded 
by the big dog, and which I knew that 
Toby’s pup would never heed. 

In that instant the fighting blood rushed 
to my head. The only chance to get out was 
the window and through it I went, the glass 
crashing all about as I landed in the snow. 


138 


SANDY OORANG 


Three leaps and I was at the big brute’s 
throat. I have seldom fought — but I have 
always fought hard. And that, my friends, 
was a battle I shall never forget! 

I trust I shall not shock you, but I was 
mad clear through, and I must confess that 
after the minute I had tasted blood there 
was only one person in all the world who 
could have checked the fight that fol- 
lowed — so far as my end of it was concerned. 
Miss Helen was that one person, and she 
was not there. Not even to Bob, much as I 
love him, would I have listened after the wolf- 
dog had slashed open my neck from head to 
shoulder. Do not misunderstand me. I would 
do anything for Bob — I would die for him, 
gladly. But even in my rage I should have 
known, in the bottom of my heart, that Bob 
himself loves a fight as much as I, as all he- 
men and real dogs do, and at that moment 
I would not have heeded even his command. 

Consequently, you may well imagine that 
the shouts of the three men now behind me 
fell upon deaf ears. 

“Wolf will kill him!” the stranger shouted. 
“Stop it, somehow — what can we do?” 

“I know it — get your dog off!” Sam 


SANDY OORANG 


139 


wildly exclaimed, dancing about and waving 
his arms aimlessly. 1 'That’s not our own 
dog anyhow — an’ we can't have anything 
happen to him!" he added, in a sort of breath- 
less shout. 

But just then, being under the larger dog, 
I reached up and found his throat — and, 
once I had that, I ceased to see or feel or hear. 
I knew only one thing — that my strong 
jaws had found the spot they lusted after, 
and were slowly but surely closing, closing 
tighter all the time, sinking, sinking deeper 
all the while. And I was happy — gloriously 
and almost peacefully satisfied and content. 
The glory of it all engulfed me — I was dead 
to all sights or sounds. 

How long the fight lasted after that I do 
not know, nor do I know how the three men 
may have tried to stop it — I am sure they 
did all they could. It seemed years later — 
but must have been very shortly — that I 
awoke sufficiently to realize that a stick was 
being forced between my jaws and someone 
was trying to pry them apart. I tried to 
resist, but it was a feeble effoit. I held on as 
firmly as I could, but to no avail. My 
strength was gone and I knew it — the power- 


140 


SANDY OORANG 


ful hands and arms behind that stick were 
too much just then even for my iron jaws — 
and slowly but surely they were pried apart. 

Strong arms picked me up and carried me 
to the cabin. But before my eyes closed 
I saw that the wolf-dog had not gotten up — 
and something told me that he never would 
again. And when this fact dawned upon me, 
I closed my eyes in a perfect rest. 

How long I slept I do not know, but the 
trappers passed up the furs that day and 
stayed at home. I was awakened by Toby 
licking my face, but it felt so good I did not 
open my eyes for some time. Finally I 
decided to lift my head and peep around, 
and when I did I saw both the trappers sitting 
there as if badly frightened about some- 
thing. I thumped my stub of a tail on the 
floor just once, and that seemed to bring 
them out of it. 

“Thank Heaven!” I heard Sam say softly. 

“Me, too,” said McIntyre, right after him. 
“But Gods, man, did you ever think he 
could do it!” 

The next day, when they buried the fur 
buyer’s dog, I was strong enough to be out 
and watch them do it. But it was a week 


SANDY OORANG 


141 


before I was able to help Toby pull the sled, 
and for six days the brave little creature did 
it alone, just as she had to do the year before 
when there was no other dog to help her. 


Chapter X 


During the long days that followed my 
fight with the wolf-dog, I was very lonely. 
The trappers took good care of me and I 
loved the great wilderness, but I missed my 
loved ones who were so far away. I knew 
that as soon as I was busy again and able to 
be about over the trap line working in har- 
ness with Toby, my intense longing would be 
greatly assuaged by activity, and I was 
anxious for that time to come. I don’t like 
idleness — it breeds discontent. To be able 
to keep busy is a great blessing, for work 
that is interesting takes one’s mind from 
one’s troubles. It gave me, therefore, a 
keen thrill of delight when, one fresh, frosty 
morning, Sam called me to him — and again 
I stood with Toby in the harness. 

And so the long winter passed almost 
uneventfully. Yet in that wild life, natural 
and primitive, ever matching my strength 
and endurance and courage against the forces 
of nature — in that life, I say, I found the 

142 


SANDY OORANG 


143 


most magnificent exhilaration I have ever 
known. 

One day in early March I had quite an 
experience with a lynx, which I will mention 
briefly. We had found many full traps, 
mostly beaver, and stopping to skin each 
one had delayed us quite a bit beyond our 
schedule. When, rather late, we finally 
stopped for a bite of lunch, McIntyre slipped 
the harness from Toby and me so that we 
might the better relax. Then, when the 
trappers took out their pipes for a bit of a 
smoke before pushing on, for some unaccount- 
able reason I felt impelled to prowl around 
in the brush. 

I think they must not have noticed me 
leave, or I probably should have been called 
back; but the fact remains that I slipped 
away. I had intended only to be gone a 
few minutes, but I had not gone far when 
suddenly a scent came faintly to me over the 
frozen forest — and a consuming curiosity 
drew me toward it. As I advanced the 
smell grew constantly keener to my sensitive 
nose, and I knew it was from some animal I 
had not yet met during my sojourn in the 


144 


SANDY OORANG 


North. Soon I knew that I was very close, 
and then — 

Suddenly I found that I had been circling 
and there, right ahead, was our trap line 
trail again; and in a trap, not a hundred feet 
away, was an enormous cat barely caught by 
its left hind foot. With a scream of rage 
when it saw me, the big cat clawed wildly at 
the air with its two free forelegs. Fas- 
cinated, I carefully drew closer until I was 
circling just beyond reach of those wicked 
claws. An uncontrollable desire to attack 
surged through me and I began watching my 
chance to spring in. I growled fiercely to 
decoy it into making a spring that would 
throw it off its balance when that left hind 
foot would be held back by the trap. To 
punctuate the growl, I feinted forward and 
gave a quick snap of my jaws. My trick 
was more than successful! At the click of 
my teeth, with the speed of lightning, the 
animal sprang with every ounce of energy 
in its powerful sinewy frame. 

And the'n something happened beyond my 
reckoning. The cat in its anger had for- 
gotten the trap, and had lunged at me with 
such terrific force that its left hind foot was 


SANDY OORANG 


145 


wrenched free! But it was too late then to 
retreat. The cat had me, and it was fight 
or die. I have had several fierce encounters 
in my life, but none that has ever approached 
that one. The cat had five weapons to my 
one — it had its teeth and four sets of claws, 
while I must depend solely upon the strength 
of my jaws. Furthermore, its wild training 
had taught it that every fight was a fight for 
life — a fight to kill. But on the other 
hand, alone with my foe in the frozen forest, 
there awoke in me the same instinct to 
give final battle in primitive struggle. No 
known friend stood close behind me, as had 
been the case when I fought the wolf-dog 
and knew that both Smith and McIntyre 
were there. It was now just the big cat and 
I alone — and it must be one or the other 
of us to emerge the winner, and the one 
that did not win — must die. 

These things I knew, and you may be sure 
that I fought with a cold calculation. My 
months in the wilderness had toughened and 
developed my body until I could give a good 
account of myself — and I needed it all now. 
I fought as silently as a pit bull terrier — I 
could not afford to waste my strength with 


146 


SANDY OORANG 


meaningless growls. And I fought as 
wickedly as the big wild cat itself. But it 
seemed as if it would never come — that one 
hold I wanted, which was victory for me and 
for which I suffered much mutilation while 
waiting my chance. Meanwhile, I did not 
waste my strength, but saved it all until that 
one hold should come, for I knew I would 
need it then — every ounce that I could 
hold in reserve. So while the lynx tore and 
cut my body to ribbons, I merely hung on, 
watching until my time should come. 

And just as things so often come to him 
who intelligently waits, my chance came to 
me. I out-generalled the lynx into leaving 
me a throat opening — and, when I sprang 
for it, I put into my onslaught every effort 
of my body. All the strength I had been 
saving — strength developed in the harness 
over icy northern trails — went into punish- 
ing my enemy into absolute lifelessness. 
When I was certain that I had the grip — 
and that it was the one right one — I forgot 
all else, and just crushed, crushed down with 
my jaws. And in the glory of giving good 
battle I felt strangely glad, for I knew that, 
even though the cat might kill me, 1^ would 


SANDY OORANG 


147 


also kill the cat before ever my jaws would 
give. Even beyond my natural endurance 
those jaws would stick — even beyond con- 
sciousness they still would punish — for into 
them I had locked my all of will, beyond 
which there is no force to give. 

****** 

Poor little Toby — how I shall always 
love and honor her memory — what a friend 
she was to me that winter in the woods! 
That night she had my weight on the sled 
behind her, and bravely she bore my tom 
and bleeding body back to the cabin. For 
when she and her masters found me, I was 
beyond all helping of myself. The lynx was 
dead — and I, too, should have been frozen 
to death, had they not found me just when 
they did. The skins were removed from the 
sled to make room for me, and the trappers 
packed them home on their backs. 

It was two weeks before I was able to be 
up and about again. I had a very close call, 
but I was tough and pulled through it. The 
Airedale is a sturdy dog in any circumstance, 
and my natural strength and endurance had 
been greatly enhanced by my life and work 


148 


SANDY OORANG 


in the woods. Yet, though I pulled through 
that experience in good shape, I can never 
erase it from my memory — my dreams, 
even today, are often troubled, and I awake 
suddenly all a- tingle with nervousness, the 
aftermath of that fight. I should not have 
missed it for anything in the world! 


Chapter XI 


But my wilderness winter at last came to 
an end, as all things have an ending except 
the eternity of God. Late in the spring the 
deep snows lost their hard crust, and a sin- 
gularly disagreeable slush replaced the clean, 
crisp ice over which we had made our way 
throughout the long winter. 

At the first sign of the thaw, the trappers 
had taken up their scattered traps; and, as 
the season advanced with a surprising rapid- 
ity, we passed whole days in the cabin, 
performing small tasks or none at all as we 
waited for the weather to settle. In the 
north woods this period of transition between 
the seasons is always one of forced inactivity, 
entirely so at least until the ice on the lakes 
has broken up sufficiently to permit of the 
use of canoes. 

On one of these long, aimless days a chance 
word set the trappers to talking of my mas- 
ters — and me. 

“Strange we never got the word to ship 
Sandy back,” McIntyre remarked. He drew 

149 


150 


SANDY OORANG 


me close beside him and patted my head. 
“Still, I’m mighty glad we didn’t. He’s been 
a great help to us this winter.” 

“Yes, it is queer,” Sam answered, thought- 
fully. “I’ve been thinking a lot ’bout it, 
and I’ve concluded that they must have 
written, but we never got the letters. If 
we don’t hear from them ’fore long now, 
though, I miss my guess.” 

“I reckon so,” said his partner. “Guess 
I’d better run down to the Soo first chance, 
and wire them that he’s still up here with 
us and all to the good. Then they can do 
what they like about him. I’ll go next 
week, if the ice breaks up. We need some 
stuff, anyhow.” 

I knew they were talking about my future, 
so I nuzzled my head further into McIntyre’s 
lap. My heart still yearned for my mother 
and Miss Helen and Bob; but I had learned 
to love them all, even down to Toby’s pup. 

So it happened that, ten days later, McIn- 
tyre set out for the Soo. Within four days 
he had returned. 

“Well, what did you hear ’bout Sandy?” 
It made my heart leap to think that the 
first question Sam asked was about me. I 


SANDY OORANG 


151 


stood stock still and pricked up my ears to 
listen. 

“Oh, they tried to get us word, all right,” 
McIntyre replied. “They sure did! At the 
telegraph office they told me they’d ’most 
burned up the wires tryin’ to get messages 
through to us shortly after they left. But 
the weather turned just at that time, you 
remember, an’ there was no way. Several 
telegrams were given to fur buyers who came 
up this direction — what happened to them, 
I don’t know. At the railroad office they 
said the Robertsons had written them, but 
they answered that the only thing to do was 
wait till spring. So that’s how it stood all 
winter.” 

“Didn’t you send ’em word?” Sam 
demanded. 

“Sure! I wired the first thing, and got a 
long telegram back the same afternoon. 
They want us to ship Sandy out as soon as 
we can. Then I wrote a long letter and 
explained all about him, so’s they’d know, 
and promised to come back to the Soo the 
first chance I get and send him on.” 

When I heard these words, I was almost 
as sad as I was happy, if you can understand 


152 


SANDY OORANG 


the paradox. I would have been deliriously 
eager at the prospect of seeing my master 
and mistress again, had I not suddenly re- 
membered that for this delight I should be 
compelled to pay what was to me a heavy 
price. For I knew that it meant the end of 
that rugged wilderness life, which had come 
to mean all of freedom to me. And I knew 
that it meant an abrupt parting, perhaps for- 
ever, from all my friends of the wilderness — 
from Sam and his little household, McIntyre, 
Toby and the pup — that it was the end of 
those long, hard days on the trail with the 
sled, and of those long, sweet nights beneath 
the clear stars. I could hardly restrain my 
impatience to see the Robertsons again, but 
I knew I should miss the others and all they 
meant to me. So my heart was not without 
its sorrow — partings are so utterly desolating ! 
But, when I thought of how much more I 
would have given up just to see Miss Helen 
and Bob again, even this sacrifice seemed 
small in comparison with that incalculable 
joy. 

It was two weeks before McIntyre made 
his next trip to the Soo, and this time I went 
with him, on the first leg of my long journey. 


SANDY OORANG 


153 


Once arrived, McIntyre made the necessary 
arrangements and, at the baggage room, I 
was put into a large, comfortable crate. I 
use the epithet somewhat ironically; for to a 
restless dog, of course, a crate is always a 
crate, and therefore a prison. But I curbed 
my impatience at this restraint, for I knew 
where it was intended to take me. 

Before McIntyre left, he came to my crate 
in the big baggage room and talked to me, 
long and gently. There was a suspicion of 
mist in his eyes, and my heart went out to 
him when I saw how much he hated to see 
me go. The comradeship of men and dogs 
grows very close in the wilderness. He 
slipped his hand in through the slats, and I 
licked it. Then, as if on a sudden impulse, 
he withdrew it and strode hurriedly away. 
And I was sad, for I knew in my heart I 
should never see him again. 

There was plenty of food for me in the 
crate, but I had no desire to eat. Indeed, 
I did not feel that I should want to eat for a 
long time to come. But the long trip and 
the stress of my emotions had wearied me, 
and I felt unaccountably drowsy. Resting 
my head between my paws, I closed my eyes. 


154 


SANDY OORANG 


After I do not know how long a time, I 
was awakened by a slight noise almost at my 
very ear. Someone was cautiously prying 
off one of the slats of my crate. I didn't 
recognize his smell, but I knew he had no 
business with me; so I growled as ominously 
as I knew how. Immediately he ceased his 
operations, stood for a few minutes at the 
side of my crate, and then went away. Pres- 
ently he returned, however, bringing with 
him three other men. I felt them pick up 
the crate and carry it a considerable distance, 
but they made no noise. My first impulse 
was to bark, but the whole operation was so 
strange to me that I waited to see what they 
would do next. The adventure fascinated 
me. After a time I heard the rumble of 
wheels beneath my crate and the clatter of 
horses' hoofs from in front, and I knew I was 
being driven away into the night. 

For the several days following, I was left 
in the crate, although fresh water and food 
were put in for me regularly; and my prison 
seemed constantly to be moving from place 
to place. Once there was a long ride on a 
train, but somehow I knew that it was not 
taking me to Miss Helen and Bob. I knew 


SANDY OORANG 


155 


that I had been stolen. My body was 
cramped and aching from the confinement 
of the crate, and I no longer had the miti- 
gating comfort of the thought that at the end 
of the journey would be reunion with those I 
loved. 

At last the day came when my travels were, 
for a time, at an end. I found myself sur- 
rounded by hundreds of men — never before 
had I seen so many — all dressed alike in 
loose-fitting, scrupulously neat brown suits, 
not greatly unlike Bob’s hunting outfit, with 
jaunty little caps that bore a metal maple 
leaf just above the visors. I do not recall 
ever having heard of a soldier up to that 
time, but I had seen members of that wonder- 
ful organization, the Canadian Northwest 
Mounted Police, and knew something of their 
prowess. So when I heard talk of war, a 
war between tribes of men, I knew there 
were great deeds brewing. The idea of men 
fighting among themselves surprised and some- 
what repelled me at first ; but as I listened to 
the men discussing the causes of their quarrel, 
I soon understood what a powerful bully their 
enemy was, and how necessary had become 
his destruction. The stories I heard told of 


156 


SANDY OORANG 


his horrible deeds made me itch for a chance 
at him myself, to sink my strong teeth in 
his jugular and drink again the ardors of the 
fight. 

Not long after my crate had been unloaded 
at the last stopping place, it was opened and 
a lead was slipped deftly over my collar as 
I came out. It felt so wonderfully good to 
be able to stretch my legs again, and my 
brain was so dazed by my long journey and 
by the presence of so many men, that I sub- 
mitted without remonstrance to the man who 
was leading me about. Many times after 
that I planned to steal away and, once clear 
of the camp, to continue my journey home 
on foot; but I was never given an opportunity. 
Always, when I was not securely tied, there 
was someone with me, holding the end of 
my lead. 

Little by little my resentment at my kid- 
napping vanished. There were many of these 
young men whom I really grew to like, and a 
few whom I even loved. Although I con- 
sistently refused to have anything whatever 
to do with the four men who had carried me 
away, I could not feel any great anger even 
against them, for they were really very 


SANDY OORANG 


157 


likable young fellows, and I now understand 
that they had stolen me, innocently enough 
of the pain their action had caused me, 
because they had seen me when I was put into 
the crate and had taken a fancy to me for a 
mascot. 

Yet, taken all in all, life was far from unpleas- 
ant in this army camp, nor did it lack for 
excitement. There were daily drills for the 
soldiers, and endless drills for me. With the 
most painstaking care, I was taught hundreds 
of strange tricks. At least, I thought at the 
time that they were tricks, though I later 
learned the terribly serious purpose of all 
these lessons. On the fields of France we 
dogs had a great task to do — but I mustn’t 
get too far ahead of my story. My longing 
for Miss Helen and Bob grew stronger day 
by day, but I really liked the life I was 
leading and was constantly fascinated by the 
spirit of adventure which seemed to surround 
me. 

There came a day at last when I was led 
up the gangplank to the deck of a tremen- 
dously huge boat, larger by far than any I 
had ever seen on the lakes. Then followed 
many days at sea which were notable mainly 


158 


SANDY OORANG 


for their monotony; although some of the 
young men I liked best would give me prac- 
tice from time to time in the tricks I had 
been taught in camp, there was so little to 
do that the inactivity nearly drove me frantic. 
But at last the long voyage ended, and when 
I was led down the gangplank to another 
wharf, I knew from what I heard that we 
were in the country called England. I knew, 
too, that my chances of getting back whence 
I had come were dismally remote. Just how, 
I cannot say; but I was intensely conscious 
of those three thousand miles of ocean that 
lay as a mighty barrier between my old 
home and this land of fogs and soldiers. 

I think it was with the realization of the 
irrevocability of my fate, that I became 
reconciled to it. Once my last hope of escape 
had vanished, I attached myself to the com- 
pany I was in with all the loyalty I knew. 
Apart from the vexing recollection that I 
had been pressed into this service against 
my will, I was having a most delightful 
experience. I sincerely liked most of my new 
found friends and, above all, as I have 
remarked, I was enchanted by an indefinite 
sense of impending adventures. The hush 


SANDY OORANG 


159 


of expectancy that seemed to permeate the 
camp and country assured my instincts. 
And how true it was to prove! Ours was 
the great adventure of the age. 


Chapter XII 


We passed several weeks in an English 
camp before we were finally sent across the 
channel into France, and during that interim 
the men constantly complained of their inac- 
tivity. But for me the days were full to 
sufficiency, for my instruction in the strange 
duties of which I have already recorded the 
beginning, was continued with redoubled 
vigor. I often think, in the light of all that 
followed, of the impatience of those young 
men for the terrible endurances that awaited 
them beyond the English Channel. 

One day as I was walking in a country 
road with two of the soldiers, we met two 
other soldiers accompanied by a wicked look- 
ing dog with a very mischievous eye. I 
sensed trouble before we had come within 
fifty paces of them. 

I was not seeking a fight, of course, but I 
determined not to turn out of my path for 
that rather unkempt and certainly vainglori- 
ous dog. So I kept serenely on my way in a 
perfectly straight line, which soon brought 
160 


SANDY OORANG 


161 


me face to face with him. I noticed that he 
veered just a little toward me from his own 
path to make this direct meeting inevitable. 
There we stood, then, gazing at one another 
with eyes not entirely friendly, neither will- 
ing to step aside sufficiently to let the other 
pass. As the other dog was considerably 
larger than I, the men with him feared that 
he would make short work of me and spoke a 
word of warning — though I think the soldiers 
on both sides were secretly itching to see a 
fight. 

“Better call your dog,” said one of the 
men with the big mongrel. “He'll get badly 
hurt if they mix up.” 

“Call off your own dog,” was the prompt 
response. “Ours will take care of himself.” 

“Oh, just as you say!” The retort was 
none too pleasant. Then the two men 
started on, whistling for their animal to 
follow. 

If anyone expected me to stand aside, he 
was greatly mistaken. Without malice, but 
with an unshaken determination never to 
give place, I planted my forelegs the more 
firmly in the ground. The other dog was 
equally determined, and as he came on he 


162 


SANDY OORANG 


attempted to force me from the path. Even 
then I did not attack him, merely bracing 
myself so as to make him veer off to one side. 
This was too unkind a blow to his pride, 
and he immediately sunk his teeth in my 
shoulder. While I was not eager for trouble, 
I had none the less been expecting it, and was 
prepared for just this movement. A simple 
twist of the neck gave me at once a perfectly 
beautiful hold on his throat. The lust to 
kill was not in me then, but I pinched his 
jugular severely. Then the cur strain in him 
showed, and he commenced to howl piteously. 

That was enough. The situation was com- 
pletely reversed, so far as my opponent’s 
masters were concerned, and they were soon 
begging that the fight be stopped. The men 
whom I was with called me off with a word, 
and in the moment I released my hold the 
cur was off like a fugitive flasli down the 
street with his tail tucked forlornly between 
his legs. That is what I knew he would do, 
or perhaps I should not have let him off so 
easily. But then I did not wish to kill. 
My only purpose was to teach the bully a 
lesson, and that I did. Dogs fight differently 


SANDY OORANG 


163 


upon different occasions, you see — just as, 
I might add, do men. 

At last the day came when we embarked 
for France and the battle front. To me it 
was an hour of sadness, for somehow I knew 
that grievous events were coming — the 
instinct within me told me so, I guess. But 
those splendid young men, who went forth 
with eagerness in heart and step, were singing 
almost all the way. Still they sang, even 
beyond upon the tortured earth of No Man’s 
Land, in the frozen slime of the trenches, 
across the shell-swept agony of the entangle- 
ments up to the very steel of their enemy 
and yonder to their God. When they re- 
turned, they were not so gay; they were 
sadder, stronger, deeper. They were care- 
less youths no longer; they had felt death 
in the blast, and they came back men — 
those few who did come back. Most of them 
sleep beneath the poppies. 

I shall not linger upon the events of this 
great world war, nor even the parts of it in 
which I was actively concerned. Its history 
is familiar, and the recollection of my own 
participation is too vividly reminiscent of 
the friends whom I saw die. It will be suffi- 


164 


SANDY OORANG 


cient to recall the part played by dogs in the 
struggle against autocracy, when more than 
ten thousand animals of my kind — ranging 
from sturdy sledge dogs from the Alaskan 
trails, on through innumerable breeds, such 
as the Shepherd, St. Bernard, Scotch Collie, 
Airedale, even down to the game little Fox 
Terrier — were constantly employed upon 
the various battle fronts up to the sign- 
ing of the Armistice. 

One and all they did good work, work 
requiring undaunted courage and unfailing 
dependability even in the face of terrifying 
cataclysms and swift death. No one who 
saw the fields of France and Belgium could 
ever doubt the fidelity of the dog to man. 
Many dogs were enrolled on the regimental 
rosters, as if they were soldiers. In the 
trenches they shared equally all the perils 
and hardships of the men, and drew their 
turns in the rest camps in precisely the same 
fashion. But they were always ready to go 
back — and it is not recorded that a single 
dog ever failed when the order came to go 
over the top. I mention these facts neither 
to vaunt myself nor my kind, but that the 
record of my life should not disregard its 
most splendid experience. 


Chapter XIII 


The years I spent at the battle front — 
almost from the beginning until the very end 
of the war — remain in my mind like the 
memory of some frightful nightmare. Life 
had been hard enough in the wilderness and 
the fight for life had been often grim and bit- 
ter, but human warfare is infinitely more 
terrible. It is grotesque, unnatural, dispas- 
sionately mechanical. I could exult to fight 
a lynx or a wolf, but no dog can fight an 
explosive shell that he cannot hear until it is 
too late. 

For three years, however, I fought with 
the Canadians in that inferno of torment, 
doing what little I could to assist the only 
friends I now knew by darting among the 
wounded with my first-aid pack, carrying 
official messages upon occasion, warning of 
the presence of those hideous corroding gases, 
and in whatever other ways would present 
themselves from time to time. Yet, even 
among the ardors and endurances of this 
gigantic conflict, I often thought of Miss 
165 


166 


SANDY OORANG 


Helen and Bob in their comfortable home so 
far away, longing with all my heart to go 
back to them after my task here was done, 
and wondering if such a reunion might ever 
be my fortune. 

Then word came, one day, that a great 
ship, the Lusitania , had been sunk with- 
out warning by a German submarine. A 
large number of innocent people who had 
nothing whatever to do with the war had 
lost their lives in the catastrophe; and, as 
most of the victims were American citizens, 
it was possible that this cowardly deed would 
arouse the United States to declare war 
upon our enemy. The men talked about it 
excitedly, far into the night. They seemed 
greatly encouraged at the prospect; for, as 
they said, the Americans were a people who 
fought reluctantly but, once the limitations 
of their patience had been overstepped, knew 
not the meaning of fear or of defeat. 

“Now Fritz will do the goose step,” 
chuckled one of the men. 

I knew that all this was true, for I had 
observed many young men back in the 
United States, golfing friends of Miss Helen's 
and classmates of Bob’s, and my perceptions 


SANDY OORANG 


167 


were not deluded by their careless ways and 
little occupations. Dogs know men far bet- 
ter than men can ever hope to know them- 
selves or each other. I thought of Bob and 
of my first master, and I knew that it would 
not be long before they and their fellows 
would come like wrathful Justice across the 
seas and destroy their foe and ours. For 
days I lived in a condition of almost painful 
agitation, for I knew that if the United States 
should enter the war, Bob would be among 
the first to come. 

Late one afternoon, during a lull in the 
firing, word was passed up the trench we 
occupied that the United States had declared 
war upon the German Empire and her allies. 
The men were wild with happiness, and 
already they began to talk of the end of the 
long struggle and of home. But I — I was 
frantic with joy. I knew that my master 
would soon come to France, and I longed 
to take my place in battle at his side. But 
how should I ever find him in that limitless 
shambles of shell-holes and barbed wire and 
death, among those millions of men and 
hundreds of camps? 

As the weeks went by I made it a point 


168 


SANDY OORANG 


to cover each day as much territory as 
possible, glancing anxiously into each face 
that passed. I no longer remained constantly 
with my Canadian friends, but slipped away 
and wandered from one trench or camp to 
another, always bearing my part in the 
struggle, but always searching, ceaselessly 
searching. 

Then, one night, I found him. My good 
fortune was so sudden and remarkable that 
it was a long time before I could persuade 
myself that it was an actuality, and not 
merely a delusion of my ardent desire and 
the dejection into which I had fallen. It 
could not be that I was led to my master 
otherwise than by the hand of God, which 
worked so many wonders on that agonized 
battle front. 

I had found the Americans some weeks 
previously, and was going from company to 
company in my search for my master. But 
I could find him nowhere. By this time I 
was greatly discouraged by such long and 
futile searchings, and I often seriously doubted 
if I should ever find the man I sought among 
so many hundreds of thousands, scattered 
throughout Northern France and far into 


SANDY OORANG 


169 


Belgium. Living was precarious, as I re- 
mained always on the front line and had no 
friends to see that I was fed; but I didn’t 
mind hardships — the only thing I minded 
was the terrible nostalgia that kept me upon 
this nomadic quest of my master. 

It was not long after I set out upon my 
search that I fell into the practice of report- 
ing, so to speak, at the ambulance or medical 
headquarters all along the line. Trailing 
along behind the stretcher-bearers or crouched 
upon the running-boards of the ambulances, 
I could cover an entire sector from the rear 
far out into No Man’s Land in a much shorter 
time than would have been possible under 
any other circumstances. Thus, I was able 
to render many valuable services and helped 
to save the lives of many wounded men; 
but, of course, passing as I did like a restless 
spirit from camp to camp, I never paused to 
reap the reward of my diligence. 

On the night I have mentioned it was pitch 
black and a slight rain was falling. It was 
as trying a night as I have ever known. 
Winter had fairly started, and between the 
rain and the cold I was numb and miserable. 
How I pitied the men in the trenches, who 


170 


SANDY OORANG 


did not have warm coats like mine to protect 
them, and had not accustomed themselves 
to the cold in the Canadian wilderness winter ! 
The water was over their ankles in the 
bottom of the trenches, and they had to keep 
stamping their feet to keep them from 
freezing fast into the thin coat of ice that 
was forming over the surface. The fighting 
was unusually brisk that night. The guns 
on both sides were crashing in a steady roar 
that strung our nerves to the breaking point, 
and frequent sallies upon both sides ran up 
the casualties very seriously. 

I, of course, was with the ambulances, 
and a trying night we had of it. By midnight 
we had made no less than eleven trips, our 
only illumination the ghastly brilliance of 
the star shells, the flashes of the guns and 
the flaming Verey lights. Twice each trip 
we were compelled to run through a veritable 
curtain of fire, and finally a 4 ‘whiz-bang* ' 
burst immediately in front of us. Our car 
was wrecked and I, who fortunately was 
trotting along at the side as it made its way 
painfully over the uneven ground, was stunned 
by the impact and thrown, bruised and bleed- 
ing, quite a distance away. Within a few 


SANDY OORANG 


171 


minutes, however, I was back at the scene, 
but there was only a gruesome little left of the 
ambulance and its occupants. 

When I saw that my companions were 
beyond any aid of mine, I struck out across 
the field, knowing that I should find other 
ambulances and more urgent duties not far 
away. Presently I saw the splintered and 
twisted wreckage of an airplane quite a dis- 
tance over to my left, considerably beyond 
the zone where the ambulance men were 
working. I ran to it, on the chance that 
one of the fliers might still be alive and in 
need of my assistance. 

A few feet away from the wreckage lay a 
man. He was dead, but his body was still 
warm. This would be the observer, I thought . 
Then, as I was poking around in the twisted 
mass of wires and spruce, I heard a slight 
stirring beneath the overturned shell of the 
body. Almost simultaneously I detected a 
faint but familiar smell, almost obliterated 
in the heavy fumes of petrol. 

I gave a glad yelp and began scratching 
away for dear life at the splintered wood. 
At last a voice rewarded me. 


172 


SANDY OORANG 


“Sandy!” it said. “Go fetch, Sandy. I’m 

too tired so tired ” 

The voice drifted off in a whisper. But 
it brought me a surge of joy so sudden and 
tremendous that my heart nearly broke with 
it. It was Bob there, beneath that wrecked 
airplane! He was hurt, I knew not how 
badly, but I had found my master. Of 
course I do not believe he as yet really 
knew it was me, but in his semi-conscious 
condition he must have forgotten the years 
and events that had separated us. 

It is almost needless to say that I worked 
frantically after hearing his voice. At last 
I managed to make enough of a hole in the 
wreckage to thrust my head through, and 
my cold nose touched his cheek. He was 
unconscious, but he still lived. How I 
thanked God for that! 

I knew that my unaided strength was suf- 
ficient neither to liberate my master from 
the wreckage which pinned him down, nor 
to help him much in his present condition. 
So I seized his flying cap with my teeth and 
ran off with it towards the American trenches. 

I had gone quite a long distance before I met 
an ambulance. This one was moving slowly 


SANDY OORANG 


173 


down the line, so I leaped up at the driver’s 
seat and, when he took the cap , I began to bark. 

The surgeon in command ordered the 
driver to stop the car, and immediately I 
jumped out and ran a little way in the 
direction of the wrecked airplane, then 
stopped, looked back, and barked again. 
In this way I conveyed to the ambulance 
crew the news that they were needed out 
there, and the flier’s cap told the rest. There 
was a hurried conference between the medical 
officer and the men. They knew, of course, 
that I proposed a desperate undertaking, and 
the commander was reluctant to order his 
men to their possible death. 

But the men clamored to follow me, and 
presently the officer leaped to his seat beside 
the driver, shouting to me: 

“All right, old man, carry on! We’re with 
you.” And off we went into the night. 

It was a wild adventure, I can tell you. 
Throwing caution to the winds, the driver 
speeded up his car and followed as closely as 
the upturned ground would let him at my 
heels. By the time we had reached the 
wrecked airplane, the Germans in the trench 
nearest us were raking us with volley after 


174 


SANDY OORANG 


volley of rifle bullets. Fortunately they had 
no machine guns, but, as it was, one of the 
men was badly wounded even before we had 
arrived, and the car itself was riddled. 

Before the ambulance had come to a stop 
beside the wreckage, the men had jumped 
out and were tearing away with lacerated 
hands. In a trice they had turned the plane 
over and had Bob on a stretcher and into the 
ambulance. Another careening ride, with the 
bullets screaming around us and tearing 
through the sides of the ambulance, and we 
were back within the American lines. Three 
men had been wounded during that spec- 
tacular rush, but none were killed. 


Chapter XIV 


I shall pass hastily over the events that 
followed, for I fear my narrative is becoming 
over long. I saw Bob’s wounds properly 
dressed in the field hospital, and lay beside 
his cot as long as he remained there. It was 
many hours before he regained consciousness, 
and the surgeons talked gravely together 
about him, using many words I could not 
understand. But it was plain that he was 
a famous flier — an “ace,” they called him 
— and that much anxiety was felt in official 
quarters for his safety. I also understood 
that important information and maps had 
been found in his notebook and forwarded to 
general headquarters. 

When at last my master awakened from 
his long sleep, he was too weak to move and 
in his delirium he talked, not at all of the 
war, but of our autumn together in the 
wilderness and especially of our exploration 
of that beautiful little lost paradise that his 
father had named “Wild Lake.” When fin- 
ally he recognized me, he smiled, and laid 
175 


176 


SANDY OORANG 


his hand weakly upon my head. He did not 
seem at all surprised to meet me there, three 
thousand miles from home, and under such 
conditions. Indeed, he did not seem to 
remember that I had ever been away from 
him; but this was because of his illness. 
How happy I was during those hours only 
the God who sent me to him can ever know. 

Soon, however, my master’s delirium 
passed, and to say that he was astonished to 
see me would be to put it very mildly indeed. 
He even doubted his eyes and the little marks 
by which I was familiar; but at last I con- 
vinced him, by my affectionate greetings and 
a dozen well-remembered tricks, that I was 
really I. A happier and more completely 
mystified young man never trod the earth 
than Bob when at last he understood. When 
he told the nurses and doctors the story, they 
only smiled tolerantly and gave him a drink 
of water, after which he went to sleep for a 
long time. Their manifest skepticism annoyed 
me, but after all it didn’t matter. The 
story was rather too much to be credible; 
but here I was with Bob, and I cared for 
nothing more. 

Then, one fine afternoon, three high French 


SANDY OORANG 


177 


officers came down the corridor of white cots 
and halted beside Bob, as he sat propped up 
on his pillows. They stood stiffly at atten- 
tion and one of them recited a little speech 
in French, which I did not understand, and 
then pinned a medal on his breast. Then he 
leaned over and kissed my master — yes, 
actually kissed him — on both cheeks. 

At first I was angry at this, for I thought 
Bob was being insulted; but he only laughed 
delightedly, and I afterwards learned that 
this is the way the French officers do when 
they give their heroes the Croix de Guerre. 
Then, to my amazement, the Frenchman 
leaned over and hung another medal just like 
Bob’s around my neck! But he didn’t try 
to kiss me , I am happy to say. 

Of course I was proud and glad when I 
learned what these medals signified, and the 
more so when I understood that the men of 
the ambulance crew which had brought us 
in had been similarly decorated for bravery. 
It was the highest military honor the French 
Government can give. Bob took his medal 
off as soon as the officers were out of the 
room, and slipped it in his wallet, which he 
kept beneath his pillow. When he was doing 


178 


SANDY OORANG 


this, he took another medal out of a chamois 
bag and showed it to me. It was the Distin- 
guished Service Cross. You may be sure I 
was very proud of my brave master! But 
he hid both of his medals away as if they 
were things to be ashamed of, though he 
tied mine very securely on my collar, where it 
could be easily seen. 

Shortly after this, Bob was moved to a 
large hospital situated on a beautiful private 
estate near London, where we did nothing 
but sit in a wonderful garden all day. The 
gladdest day of my life, next to the one in 
which I found Bob, was when he was able 
to leave his chair and walk a few steps, with 
the aid of the hospital orderly. Each day 
he walked a little more, and finally he managed 
quite well by himself. But he was still very 
weak, and I never once left him, although I 
often fairly ached for a good romp. 

About this time the war came to an end, 
and such hilarious rejoicing I never saw in 
all my days. Of course I joined in with all 
my might, for I was glad we had won and 
that there would be no more of slaughter and 
suffering. Then, after a while, our orders 
came to return home; but our happiness was 


SANDY OORANG 


179 


turned to vexation, for they were counter- 
manded. It wasn’t so very long, however, 
until we actually found ourselves aboard a 
big transport, steaming towards America. 

We got back just in time for Christmas, 
and what a Christmas we had! Miss Helen 
kissed my ugly face again and again, Mr. 
Robertson petted me continually, arid Bob’s 
mother hugged me almost to suffocation. 
And what a dinner I had that day! The 
finest white meat of the plumpest turkey in 
all the land was none too good for me, Miss 
Helen said. 

I wasn’t so very well the next day, but 
that didn’t matter. I was home at last! 

* * * * * * 

There is not much more left to tell. I have 
reached the autumn of my life. My active 
years are passed, but the best years, the 
years of memory and of wisdom, are at hand. 
I enjoy the constant companionship of my 
master and my mistress, whom I love with 
all my heart; and I am loved, and even hon- 
ored, by them. 

I don’t run and bark very much now, and 
I like better than ever to spend long hours 


180 


SANDY OORANG 


dozing in the sun. I am old, for a dog. I 
am now living in the period of memories, and 
mine are very happy ones. 

Winter is drawing near. But I am not 
afraid. My belief does not admit of fear for 
the future. I know that, whatever I may be 
in the next world, it will be for the best. 
Master Bob and Miss Helen will presently 
come to join me there, and we shall all be 
young again. 

I can only trust, in giving you this slight 
record of the events of my life, that you 
may have in the perusal some small measure 
of the pleasure I have had in the living of 
them. 


THE HEART OF A PAL 








THE HEART OF A PAL 


I F you will let yourself imagine the loneliest 
little lake that the heart of any wilder- 
ness lover could wish, the chances are 
your mental picture will be a pretty correct 
conception of the spot that forms the setting 
of this story. 

With this somewhat indefinite description 
of location, you must be content; I cannot be 
more specific. It is my hope and prayer that 
as it is today my lake may so remain even to 
the end of time. Through no intentional aid 
of mine will it ever be found. And strange 
as it may seem, my nameless little lake appears 
no less remote today than it ever was from 
the paths of advancing civilization. In fact, 
as I myself grow older, it seems almost more 
isolated — so securely is it hidden within 
those mighty forests whose magnificent shade 
in summer is soothing to the rare visitor 
chancing there, and whose dark isles in winter 
form the frozen fastnesses of the far North. 

My old cabin — one of the only two human 
habitations in two hundred miles — still 


183 


184 


THE HEART OF A PAL 


stands. To it each year I go, and each year 
will go until I die, because the hero of this 
tale lies buried there, sweetly sleeping to the 
music of the pines, beneath the soft sod his 
feet once trod so sturdily. And when my 
own time comes to answer the great call, 
it is my hope that I may also be buried there 
beside my friend, my pal, Cree Crompton of 
Quebec. A queer wish? Well, that’s because 
you did not know Cree Crompton. But, at 
first, you’ll be more surprised than ever when 
I tejl you who he was. Later — but you 
must wait and form your own conclusion. 
Even then we may not agree. Be that as it 
may. 

Cree Crompton was a regular he-man’s dog. 
His mother was a pure-bred Chesapeake Bay 
Retriever and his sire was one of the best 
bred dogs that Alaska dog teams had ever 
known. From the mating of these two came 
the puppy that was mine. And, because he 
first came to me when but a little puppy, just 
as I was getting ready for one of my annual 
excursions into the very heart of the North, 
and since he went with me — I called him 
Cree . For the Crompton he was indebted to 
his mother’s master, my friend, from whom 




“McCormack!” he cried .. . .“McCormack, don’t shoot 
again — that’s an airplane, man, it's an airplane!” 

THE MIGHTIEST EAGLE 



THE HEART OF A PAL 


185 


he had come a gift — a fine expression of a 
big friendship. 

Thus it happened that Cree had spent a 
thrilling period of sixty days in the great 
wilderness before he was ten months old. 
It shaped his character and left a deep and 
clearly cut impression. And, as year after 
year Cree went with me to our cabin by the 
lake, where for two full months each season 
we lived together in the wild, he grew into 
and was developed by the ways of the water 
and the woods. Our habitual time for going 
into the bush was in the late summer and 
early fall, although there was one winter — 
but I suppose that really should be part of 
another story. 

A dog in the wilderness must be far different 
from the dog of the cities. In the wilds, the 
only standard by which his worth is judged 
is the quality of his work. Neither breed 
nor pedigree, of themselves, have any bearing 
on value there. What he can do is all that 
counts. He must be many-sided — bird dog, 
hound, killer, worker in harness, and com- 
panion, all in one. A trapper, for example, 
does not have several dogs, each trained as a 
specialist to different uses. His one or two 


186 


THE HEART OF A PAL 


dogs must each do all the things that may be 
required of them. And so it became with 
Cree. He learned to hunt birds or bear, 
mink or moose. 

As a bird dog, he worked far differently 
from your field dog of the settled places. For 
instance, in hunting partridge. You could 
not know where he was, at least most of the 
time, after he had plunged off into the brush. 
If he were to find game and merely “point” 
in silent solitude as does your pointer or setter, 
you might never find it out. Cree had to 
learn how and where to locate game the same 
as your field dog — but then would come the 
difference. He must bark , not point, when 
he had found his quarry. This told of his 
success, and where he was. It also caused the 
partridges to take to the trees, where I would 
always find Cree barking “treed” for all the 
world as if the bird were a bear. 

One gets closer to his dog in the wild woods 
or frozen forests than ever in town. There 
are so many things for which you come to 
depend upon your dog, and so many things 
for which your dog must likewise depend upon 
you. You do more for one another, hence 
you mean more to each other. You are so 


THE HEART OF A PAL 


187 


continually together that there develops 
between you a constant mutuality of under- 
standing. That is why it is nothing uncom- 
mon in the far North for a master to rise to 
great heights of sacrifice for his dog, or for 
a dog to rise to equal heights to serve his 
master, even to the glad giving of his life. 

In such close comradeship as this did Cree 
grow into my heart and life, and I into his. 
The ten long months of city life that separated 
each glorious annual outing were merely 
periods to be endured — mutually distasteful, 
but unavoidable, interruptions that must be 
lived through, from one season to another, 
between those all-too-short, wonderful wilder- 
ness days. 

I shall always retain a vivid memory of 
Cree’s first experience with a porcupine. I 
might add that it was also his last. The 
talking-to I gave him, added to the experience 
itself, taught him a lesson and taught it well. 

We had been following an old, old trail that 
leads to another lake, when suddenly Cree 
gave a rather peculiar bark just a few feet 
off to the left. I ran to him and found that 
he had stuck his nose straight into Unk Wunk, 
the porcupine. And the quills of Unk Wunk, 


188 


THE HEART OF A PAL 


as the Indians call him, are as dangerous as 
they are painful. The needle-sharp points 
will penetrate almost anything. Then the 
quills, being fashioned like masses of tiny 
fish hooks, grip fast and are the very devil 
to pull out, tearing the flesh and usually 
bringing blood in the process. But they 
more than just take hold — they work in 
further all the time. If, for instance, a quill 
should pierce one's arm, even but slightly, 
it would, if not removed, eventually work its 
way clear through the arm and out the other 
side. An encounter with Unk Wunk the por- 
cupine is very likely to result in the death of 
a dog that does not know better than to attack 
him. All wild animals usually let him strictly 
alone; and, armed as he is, he fears neither 
man nor beast, but stolidly ambles on his 
way, wherever that may lead him. 

Poor Cree was a pitiful sight, with porcu- 
pine quills protruding at all angles out of his 
nose and head. Yet it was his utter game- 
ness in the face of this ugly predicament that 
won the tenderest spot of my heart. Those 
wicked, angry looking quills pierced down into 
his nose, straight into his nose, and up into 
his nose. They were in his mouth, both 


THE HEART OF A PAL 


189 


above and below, and in his tongue. I 
pulled out as many as I could; but there 
were some I could not reach at all at the time, 
and others which when I pulled them broke 
off so close that I could not get another grip 
on them. But I did the best I could, and the 
rest had to wait until we returned to the 
cabin where I could use a pair of plyers. 
But even with his mouth in such shape, and 
suffering as he surely did, Cree did not com- 
plain, but all afternoon went right on hunting 
as if nothing were the matter. 

From that first experience the camaraderie 
between us grew and developed into a bigger, 
broader love which gripped us both, and which 
we never forgot. And so it was that, together, 
Cree and I attended the school of the woods, 
acquiring almost daily some new knowledge 
of her mighty mysteries . W e learned together, 
for those were the days when I myself was 
new to the North. 

But Cree, it must be confessed, was much 
the more apt pupil. His remarkable nature 
took naturally to the woods, and his won- 
derful double coat fitted him admirably to 
spend hours at a time in the cool, clear wil- 
derness water which he so joyously loved. 


190 


THE HEART OF A PAL 


He fairly lived in the lake when we were at 
home about the cabin, and would swim every 
time he got the chance whenever we were 
off wandering in the woods or making trips in 
the canoe from one lake to another, carrying 
the short portages in between. 

We had one human instructor — Jean 
Marceau, our common friend, the half -French 
trapper whose cabin lay also along the shore 
of a lake. Not the lake — a lake. To reach 
Jean’s cabin from ours you had to cross our 
lake, carry the portage at the far end, and 
then canoe a mile and a half further around 
the bend. In this hidden habitation the 
jovial Jean lived alone, catching rich rewards 
of fur in winter, which he sold each season 
to the Hudson Bay Post two hundred miles 
away — the nearest house in any direction 
besides our own two cabins. There Jean 
bought his supplies for the year ahead and 
packed them home by canoe. In season he 
found plenty of fish to vary his fare, as well 
as an abundance of raspberries and blue- 
berries. 

So lived Jean Marceau. And one of the 
greatest pleasures for both Cree and me each 
September was to spend considerable time 


THE HEART OF A PAL 


191 


with him in his preparation for the trapping 
season to come. Thus we learned much lore 
that we would otherwise have missed; for Jean 
always seemed pleased to have us join him 
and was kind about helping us all he could 
in satisfying our thirst for knowledge. 

I shall never forget the first real hike we 
took with him into the bush, and the feeling 
of pride that surged through me when he 
invited us to go with him and look over the 
country with a view to deciding upon his 
trap line for the coming season. Those of 
you whose cross-country tramps have been 
confined to traveled turnpikes or tiny forests 
and fields can scarcely understand what it 
means to buck the brush of tangled timber 
in its native wild. When we finally got home, 
late in the afternoon, my trousers were torn 
to shreds, one heavy sock was ripped com- 
pletely away above the shoe, and its mate 
pricked almost to pieces; my shins were 
bumped and bruised, my hands scratched and 
raw in several spots. I was more banged up 
than after any football game I can remember 
during a rather extensive gridiron career. 
But, with it all, it was unspeakably glorious! 
My spirits were fairly soaring and my heart 


192 


THE HEART OF A PAL 


sang in tune with the music of the trees, for 
the wonder of the wilderness had gotten deep 
into my blood and I could hear its call, which 
something inside told me I should always 
answer. 

There were no trails; we simply crashed 
through heaps of brush or jumped like animals 
from log to log in going right over them. On 
the way in Jean led the way, Cree and I 
following close at his heels. A goodly part 
of the journey home I was allowed to lead 
and break the trail, and was mighty glad of 
the opportunity to improve my woodcraft. 
Only once was a suggestion ventured, and 
then Jean gave it when I stopped and stood 
for a minute on the top of a big fallen log to 
study the best way out of a bad tangle ahead. 

“Better go straight into it,” he said. 
“The only difference between one direction 
and another in this country is that one is 
worse than the other. I never try to find the 
easy way out. There isn’t such a thing. 
The worse it gets, the straighter I follow 
the compass right into it.” 

Soon after we had turned for the circle 
home in the early afternoon, just after I had 
taken the lead, we stumbled upon two 


THE HEART OF A PAL 


193 


dandy big partridges, and I shot both of them. 
They made a fine meal for the three of us 
that evening, for Cree and I spent the night 
with Jean. I had rather hoped to get a 
chance at a duck or two, but we did not see 
one all day. In fact, we did not run across 
any other game at all. The foliage at that 
season (it was early September) is still too 
dense for one to see far enough to locate wary 
game, except along the edges of water. Often 
the brush may hide a moose or a deer or a 
bear, and you never know it. But you know 
they are near you, just the same. Then, too, 
we were not out after game, and at no time 
did we really try to find any — which makes 
all the difference in the world. Those two 
partridges were all we could use — they were 
all the meat either of us cared to carry home. 
And after we had the partridges, I wouldn’t 
have added a duck to the load even had we 
seen one. The way of the wilderness is often 
cruel, but it is never wanton. 

At one place where we sat to “wind up a 
bit,” as Jean expressed it, I should have loved 
to stay all day. Not that I was in the least 
exhausted, but because it was so divinely 
wild. I could have dreamed there the most 


194 


THE HEART OF A PAL 


wonderful dreams. As we talked, I learned 
more of the characteristics of the different 
animals. I discovered, for instance, that the 
habits of the otter are entirely different from 
those of the beaver, although both are fond 
of the water. While the latter is a worker 
and lives on wood, the otter is a great fellow 
for fun and frolic, and lives on meat. He is 
built long and low, and one of his greatest 
play-stunts is a slide in snow. He will find 
a hill above the water and slide down, for all 
the world like a toboggan. The watcher who 
is quiet and knows where to go may often 
see many otters enjoying this sport at the 
same time. They simply drop flat on their 
stomachs and slide. And they go for dear 
life. Yet with all their playfulness among 
themselves, otters are wicked and dangerous 
fighters, especially when able to drag their 
victim under water. 

From the otter and the beaver, we fell to 
discussing various other animals. I remem- 
ber that I asked Jean about the lynx. With 
his long claws to aid his teeth, this big cat 
would be one of the most dangerous animals 
of the North for an unarmed man to encoun- 
ter, if he were inclined to attack without 


THE HEART OF A PAL 


195 


provocation. But this he seldom does. Jean 
did, however, tell me one story that illustrated 
the exception rather than the rule with 
regard to the lynx. A friend of his, a trapper, 
one day heard a swish in the limbs just above 
him. He carried a big revolver, which he 
drew as he turned with the instinctive rapid- 
ity of the woods. The sound proved to have 
been made by a lynx, which had already 
sprung without warning from the limb above. 
It was in mid-air as the trapper pulled the 
trigger. The big cat landed full upon him, 
knocking him to the ground. But it was 
stone dead. The bullet had pierced its heart. 
Jean declared that this was the only expe- 
rience of the sort of which he had ever heard, 
and he would not even vouch for the accu- 
racy of this one, though he believed its source 
to be reliable. 

Wolves, of course, are dangerous only when 
in numbers — and when hungry. Then there 
is nothing roaming the forests that is more 
to be feared. As there was still smoke left 
in our pipes, Jean told me a wolf story before 
we moved on. One man he knew had 
started over his line about eight o’clock one 
morning and, as he was not going far, was 


196 


THE HEART OF A PAL 


carrying only a revolver with him at the time. 
Although it was very late in the day for 
wolves not already to be up and stirring, 
Jean's friend suddenly came upon five big 
ones lying right in the trail as he rounded 
a bend. They were as startled as he, and two 
of them quickly made off into the woods. 
But the others sprang straight for him. It 
takes more than three wolves, however, to 
master one of those hardy woodsmen of the 
northland trails. The first two — one of 
them the ferocious big leader — were shot 
dead in mid-air, and the third was so badly 
wounded that he slunk off after the two 
which had already fled. 

Jean said that the wolves were quite num- 
erous each winter all about the country sur- 
rounding our two lakes. Their large padded 
feet are well adapted for travel on the snow, 
and I was interested in his description of the 
way their tracks leave impressions in the 
snow that remain after the spring thaws 
begin. Not being a heavy animal, the wolf 
packs down the snow wherever he steps, but 
his feet do not sink through the surface. As 
the unpacked snow around the wolf tracks 
melts away first, there are little raised pillars 


THE HEART OF A PAL 


197 


of snow left sprinkled all about, which remain 
evidences of wolf tracks until the snow is all 
gone; and these are always last to melt each 
spring. 

When we finally got up to go on, I thought 
I was going to have cramps in my legs. Then 
I realized what was the matter. The exces- 
sive climbing over and tramping through the 
brush had brought into play certain muscles 
that had long been dormant, and it was 
these that were bothering me. I said nothing 
about it, however, and, except for being a 
bit sore, it amounted to no more. We built 
a fire for lunch by a picturesque little beaver 
lake, made tea and ate our bacon, cheese, 
crackers and sandwiches. Later on I brought 
forward for division a cake of eating choco- 
late which I had stowed away in my pack. 
I divided it three ways, for Cree liked choco- 
late as well as either of us. 

As we went along, Jean explained how it 
had happened that he left some of his traps 
out all summer. Later the previous spring 
there had come a thaw that made snow- 
shoeing difficult and travel without them 
unpleasant. Jean had had such a good 
winter — often running between two and 


198 


THE HEART OF A PAL 


three hundred dollars worth of fur in a day 
— that as the season drew to a close he became 
indifferent and, with the break-up of the 
hard snow crusts, did not cover his line with 
the same regularity. 

There were eight traps that he had not 
gathered in all summer, and six of these we 
picked up that day on our hike. Failure to 
make one last visit to these traps the previous 
spring had cost him something under four 
hundred dollars in fur. Each of the six we 
picked up had been sprung, and five of them 
contained the stump of a beaver's foot, below 
the place he had gnawed it off to free himself. 
In the sixth we found the decomposed remains 
of a full big beaver. His fur would have 
brought all of fifty dollars, but he had been 
drowned by the trap and dead for some 
months before we found him. The stench 
was terrific as we pried him up with sticks to 
release the trap. He had been largely eaten 
away, probably by otters. 

At the place where Jean expected to pick 
up his two remaining traps we found fresh 
beaver work, on both their house and their 
dam, which had elevated the water about 
three feet above its level at the time the 


THE HEART OF A PAL 


199 


traps had been set, many months before. 
We made a vain endeavor to locate them, but 
they were probably buried several feet below 
in the dam, so we were obliged to give it up. 

We found only six of Jean’s traps, but we 
brought seven home with us . As we were 
climbing from the shore by the beaver dam 
to the higher hardwood of the forest above, 
we came upon a sprung trap which held a 
gnawed-off beaver’s foot as the only evidence 
of what it had contained and how it had 
gotten where we found it. Some trapper 
had lost a fine fur by not having a sufficiently 
heavy stone tied to his trap, and this immense 
old beaver had actually dragged trap, anchor 
and all some two hundred yards upgrade into 
the forest, where he had gnawed off his foot 
to regain his freedom. Jean explained to me 
that a trapper should always weigh his traps 
down with a stone sufficiently heavy to hold 
the catch under water, where it will drown. 
In fact, this is the only purpose of the stone; 
the real anchor should be a stout stake to 
which the trap is attached by a chain. If 
the beaver is not drowned he will invariably 
gnaw off his foot and go free. 

The seven traps that we located and brought 


200 


THE HEART OF A PAL 


in were 1 ‘boiled in cedar’ ’ — that is, Jean 
put some cedar into a kettle of boiling water, 
and into this the traps were put to boil. 
After a time the cedar water had removed 
both the rust and the smell, and the traps 
were again ready for use in the fall. Cree and 
I watched all this work the next day with a 
great deal of interest. 

And thus it was, as I have said, that, in 
this environment of the far northern wilder- 
ness, education in the ways of the wild came 
both to me and to my dog. The experiences 
that befell us — through our eyes, our ears, 
and Jean — combined to teach us many of 
the most interesting answers to some of the 
myriad mysteries of the woods. But the 
greatest of all was the way we learned to love 
one another. Between us there grew up such 
perfect understanding that we could almost 
read each other’s thoughts, and there was 
nothing that we would not have done one for 
the other. 

There had passed in this perfect comrade- 
ship seven summers after the first, and then 
came that bleak September day when Cree 
did a splendid thing to save his master. It 
is the one experience that always stands out 


THE HEART OF A PAL 


201 


most vividly in my memory — the one, above 
all others, that completely clinched the undy- 
ing quality of our love. 

The morning of that long-remembered day 
gave especial promise of perfect weather, 
though it was late in the season, and I started 
out in the canoe with Cree for a day’s trip 
through Several of the surrounding lakes. 
We had the little rifle, a fishing rod, my 
camera, enough lunch, and the best of high 
spirits. We breathed, deep, drinking in with 
great gulps of gladness the glory of it all, just 
to be alive in such a place at such a time. 
Cree sat proudly in the bow, his habitual place, 
while I paddled in a kneeling position in the 
stem. As we rounded the first bend beyond 
our cabin, we heard three loons shrilling their 
weird call at the far end of the lake near the 
portage towards which we were headed. 

As we drew nearer, the loons, of course, 
departed. When we reached the end of the 
carry at the far end of the portage, I could 
not resist the impulse to sit down for a while 
and enjoy the spell of the wilderness. It 
stole into my very soul with an infinite soft- 
ness, but the charm of the really wild, silent 
places one cannot describe, nor the spirit 


202 


THE HEART OF A PAL 


of sanctity and rest that overwhelms one 
when in their presence. 

As we sat there, not stirring, a little red 
squirrel came pattering along almost at my 
very feet. Soon he became quite friendly, 
and any fear that he might have had at first 
seemed to vanish. He paid no attention even 
to Cree — who, of course, lay quietly beside 
me, not heeding Meeko, the squirrel, at all. 
Pretty soon the little fellow discovered an old 
skull bone of a moose carcass and began 
gnawing away at it for dear life. I watched 
him for a while as his little teeth kept busily 
scratching away. He looked up so confidently 
that I was impressed, nor was he frightened 
when we finally got up and pushed off in the 
canoe. After paddling about fifty yards I 
realized what a chance I had missed to get 
a really interesting picture. I paddled back 
to do so, but our little friend had gone. 

The wind soon came up stronger and the 
lake became so rough I could hardly manage 
the canoe. I saw a duck swimming, but 
could not get near him against the opposition 
of the wind. Before long there were real 
white caps that splashed up over the sides of 
the canoe. We were being persistently blown 


THE HEART OF A PAL 


203 


across the lake in the direction directly oppo- 
site to that in which we desired to travel. 
Five times I attempted to round the point 
to get out of a bay into which the wind and 
waves had driven us, and as many times I 
was defeated. Finally I gave it up and 
smoked a cigarette. I fell to musing, and 
wondered what great Indian chieftains might 
once have been situated as we were then. 
Odd what thoughts come to one at times, 
isn’t it? 

By now the wind had mounted to a gale, 
and the clouds which unmistakably presaged 
rain were becoming more forbidding every 
minute. It soon became apparent that our 
plans for the day would not materialize — 
but somehow there could be no bitterness in 
my disappointment. One gets that way in 
the woods. The thunder cracked with 
increasing violence; streaks of lightning began 
to appear, and the lake was dark as death. 
Still, all I could think of was its magnificence. 
And I realized, too, that something had to be 
done about our situation. It would not do 
at all — at least it would not be pleasant — 
to be left there over the night. 

There was no trail through the forest, and 


204 


THE HEART OF A PAL 


the lake seemed impassable. But it had to 
be done; there was nothing else to it. I set 
to work again with the paddle and gave the 
job every ounce of my strength and skill. 
It required all I had of both. As the wind 
kept constantly forcing us shoreward — and 
several times accomplished the job — one of 
the greatest difficulties was to keep the canoe 
from being dashed to destruction against the 
rocks. I called all the skill of a long canoeing 
experience into play, but more than once 
destruction seemed inevitable. And all the 
while dear old Cree sat stolidly in the bow, 
as though supremely confident of his master's 
ability somehow to extricate his craft from 
the nasty predicament. The very absurdity 
of the situation made me smile in spite of its 
seriousness. The lake was so rough that it 
pitched the canoe about like a toy balloon. 
Still, it had not yet rained. 

For a time after we had gotten back to the 
portage leading into our own lake, it looked 
as if there were a chance that the weather 
might clear. Chancing this, we stopped there 
and ate our lunch. But my fears were 
revived by an uncertain, troubled air about 
Cree; and soon after we had finished lunch 


THE HEART OF A PAL 


205 


all hope that the storm might blow over was 
frustrated. There descended upon us a black- 
ness so sinister and evil in its every aspect that 
it was apparent there was good cause for 
haste. I carried the paddles, gun and inci- 
dentals back over the portage, leaving the 
canoe for the last. By every sign that he 
knew I could read so well, Cree constantly 
urged me to greater speed. I got the canoe 
across the portage, Cree jumped to his place 
in the bow, and I followed, plying the paddle 
vigorously. Glancing back over my shoulder 
I was startled by the most remarkable sky 
that my eyes had ever seen. It was intensely 
black — but mixed with that black was a 
wicked-looking purple and yellowish green. 

Then, suddenly, the rain began to fall. 
It didn't just patter down. The skies simply 
emptied themselves all at once. The canoe 
had a good deal of water in it when we rounded 
the bend for the final long, clear stretch to 
the cabin. For just a second, at that point, 
I hesitated. Would the canoe fill up before 
I could paddle across that stretch? It all 
depended on how fast I could paddle. I 
realized that; and I realized, too, that I would 
have to paddle twice as hard as I had ever 


206 


THE HEART OF A PAL 


paddled before in my life. Even then it 
would be a serious question whether or not I 
could make it. It would be a close call for 
us, at best. Yet there seemed nothing else 
to do, and I quickly determined to try it. 

The swishing water bade fair to capsize the 
craft with each terrific stroke of the paddle 
— but for a time it almost seemed as if we 
would be successful. The fates, however, 
willed otherwise. If we imagined it had 
been raining hard before, we were soon to 
know the folly of the thought. All that had 
preceded was as nothing to the downpour 
that descended upon us when we were about 
midway of that last leg of our flight. It was 
as though a full tub of water were suddenly 
emptied at one fell swoop into a basin. 

In a moment the canoe had filled up to the 
gunwales, thus taking our craft right out from 
under us and causing both my dog and 
myself to be deposited in the dark, deep 
waters, made doubly forbidding by the wild 
waves of lightning overhead, flashing almost 
constantly through the troubled sky. 

That was the situation in which we found 
ourselves that terrible day in late Septem- 
ber, in the heart of a vast Canadian forest, 


THE HEART OF A PAL 


207 


so many years ago. The canoe did not sink, 
but it would not bear the weight of a man. 
I soon felt myself growing chilled to the bone. 
The nearest shore was almost a mile away. 
The only human habitation anywhere around, 
besides our own cabin, was Jean's — and 
that was three or four miles distant, on the 
lake we had just left. My shoes and cloth- 
ing were oppressively heavy, and I was 
growing so cold that I began very seriously 
to doubt my ability to swim that one long 
mile to the shore. And what would I do if 
I reached it! Wet and cold and utterly 
exhausted, would I ever be able to make my 
way on foot to our cabin through the tangles 
of almost impenetrable forest undergrowth 
and brush? 

Still there seemed nothing else to do, so I 
tried it. First I attempted to remove my 
shoes. But this I could not do, for the laces 
had become twisted, soaked and knotted. 
And with my wet shoes on, I soon saw that 
I would have to give up the idea. The 
exertion of such strenuous paddling had left 
my arms so weakened as to be incapable now 
of functioning to their fullest capacity. 
Slowly but surely there came upon me the 


208 


THE HEART OF A PAL 


realization that I would never reach the 
shore. 

Never shall I forget the tumult of feel- 
ings that the thought awakened! I deter- 
mined not to give up without a fight, but I 
did not know what first to do. Any attempt 
to reach the shore was so apparently useless 
that I turned back to the now almost sub- 
merged canoe. I can still recall my joy as 
it dawned on me that the sturdy little craft 
would sink no further for several hours or 
more if no great extra weight were imposed 
upon her. 

Very carefully I tested her capacity by 
lightly resting my fingers on her bow. It 
helped — God be praised ! Even that slight 
support offered some relief after my terrific 
efforts. I could just keep my head above 
water, by kicking my feet enough to pre- 
vent much weight from bearing down the 
swamped canoe. But what this might gain 
me I could not at once foresee. It would, 
however, gain time — and time is everything 
in a critical situation. 

Almost as from a dream I was awakened 
by something touching my face. Opening 
my half-closed, tired eyes, I became aware 


THE HEART OF A PAL 


209 


that it was Cree, who had swum up close and 
was licking my face with his tongue. There 
was something about his manner that seemed 
to be insistently urging me to give some com- 
mand that would help him to relieve the 
situation. Finally, the one remaining resort 
flashed upon my mind — and that my won- 
derful Cree could accomplish; had, in fact, 
been waiting only for the word. 

“Go, boy!” I gave the word. “Fetch Jean 
— go fetch Jean, Cree.” And before the 
words were fairly out of my mouth he was off. 

Sensible dog that he was, Cree did not 
attempt to swim against the wind, even 
though to do so was the most direct route 
to Jean’s cabin. He swam with the wind to 
the nearest shore, from which point I knew 
he would strike straight through the forest 
towards his destination. Cree’s master may 
have been done almost unto death with 
fatigue, but not so the dog. Powerful strokes 
rapidly brought him nearer the shore, which 
after a bit he reached, and at once he vanished 
in the wilderness. 

A suffocating sense of desolation swept over 
me the minute I realized that he had gone 
for good. For I had sent him to fetch Jean 


210 


THE HEART OF A PAL 


— and until he did fetch Jean, I knew he 
would not turn back. To send a “Message 
to Garcia” by a dog like Cree was sufficient 
assurance that the message would be delivered. 
But was Jean at home that day — or had he, 
like ourselves, ventured forth? I could not 
tell, for when we had been on his lake a short 
while before, we had gone in the opposite direc- 
tion from his cabin. 

Such doubts as these harassed through me 
as soon as Cree had gone. But I was kept 
too busy to brood over-much. The wind 
had abated somewhat when the rain came, 
though not enough to still the waters of the 
lake to any considerable degree. The tossing 
of the waves made it hard to keep my sup- 
porting hold on the canoe, especially since a 
gentle nicety of balance must be maintained 
between its support of me and mine of it. 
It was a most delicate operation. But I had 
one thing to be thankful for, as I eventually 
became aware. The wind and the waves 
were causing the canoe gradually to drift 
toward the shore. It was torturously slow 
progress, however, for the weight was too 
great to be readily influenced by such an 
indefinite sort of pressure. 


THE HEART OF A PAL 


211 


Be that as it may, the two thoughts — 
that my dog was even then on his way for 
help, and that I was drifting toward shore, 
even though ever so slowly — gave me the 
courage to fight, the determination to hang 
on as long as I could command an ounce of 
strength with which to cling. I closed my 
eyes and doggedly clung to life. 

The next thing I knew, I awoke from a 
long sleep to find myself lying in a bed of 
balsam boughs. The minute my eyes had 
opened I felt a warm, moist pressure on my 
hand — and there was Cree, ever faithfully 
at my side. He had found Jean and brought 
him in time to save me. We were in our own 
cabin now, and as I turned over further so 
that my free hand might rest on Cree’s 
beloved head, I saw Jean heating broth for 
me on the stove. Seeing that I was awake, 
he started to speak: 

“That dog, nTsieu,” he said, “Cree, he — 
that dog. . . . ” 

He could not finish, but there was no need 
that he should. I knew all that he wished to 
say. 

When the early wilderness bed-time hour 
had come that night, the moon was so enchant- 


212 


THE HEART OF A PAL 


ing as her light softly bathed the surface of the 
lake that I went outside for a while and stood 
there, wrapped in the spell of the magic 
beauty of it all and drinking its magnificence 
with every nerve. Sometime later,- just as 
I stepped back inside, a dismal wolf -howl 
echoed weirdly from the hills beyond the bay 

— a reminder that we were deep in the heart 
of the bush. 

And to this day, in the heart of a pal, 
there is a great yearning that must ever 
remain, for the pal who now lies buried there 
by the lake that we both so loved. And 
neither the love nor the longing are any the 
less because one of the pals was only a dog 

— Cree Crompton of Quebec, who sleeps 
beneath the trees. 


THE MONARCH OF 
MOOSE LAKE 






































































































































































































































































































































































THE MONARCH OF 
MOOSE LAKE 

T HERE are still in certain sections of 
the vast Canadian wilderness, whole 
areas that are today as virgin as they 
were two hundred years ago. In many of 
these regions the vast forests have never 
been disturbed even by the ax. This rocky 
timber land is fairly sprinkled with thousands 
of tiny lakes whose cool, clear waters are the 
home of millions of speckled trout and hun- 
dreds of beaver, and the drinking places of 
the deer and the moose and the bear. 

Man-made maps do not show many of 
these lakes. Most of them are even unknown 
— except to the few trappers whose canoes, 
now and then, glide gracefully over their 
silvery surfaces during the months of the 
short northern summers, and whose snow 
shoes slide silently over the trails of their 
deep-frozen waters through the many months 
of the long northern winters. But the wild 
life of these waters and woods outnumbers 
the trappers by many thousands to one — 
215 


216 THE MONARCH OF MOOSE LAKE 


for a blazed trap line is a sacred thing, pro- 
tected by the unwritten law of the wilderness. 
Hence one trapper will not encroach upon 
another’s domain. The custom is to blaze 
in the early fall, each with his own mark, 
the trail that is to be the trap line for the 
coming winter. And these blazed trails are 
respected. No court-protected law of warmer 
lands is as inviolate. 

In this almost unknown region it is but 
natural that, among the lakes which have 
been named at all, there have been many 
duplications. Thus there are several Bear 
Lakes and Loon Lakes and Spruce Lakes and 
Moose Lakes — so that the Moose Lake of 
this story is quite likely one of which you 
have never heard. Suffice it to say that it 
lies somewhere between the rocky northern 
shore of Lake Superior and Hudson Bay. 
The water of this enchanting lake is cle&r as 
crystal and cool to drink. Right down to 
its shore line, the spruce, the birch and the 
pine grow thick, to form a fitting back- 
ground for the picture; and in these dark 
forests are hidden myriads of the wonderful 
mysteries of the wild. 

Of all the times I love Moose Lake the best 


THE MONARCH OF MOOSE LAKE 217 


is when, on a moonlight night, one allows 
himself to drift in a canoe over her deep, 
dark surface — content just to muse and 
dream while the ever-present shadows of 
the close-surrounding forest play about and 
sink down into the very water itself. One’s 
vision at such times sees all things in their 
true light; one’s sense of values is more nat- 
ural and things present themselves more 
nearly in their correct proportions — whether 
it be of matter or men. Go to Moose Lake 

— or to the virgin wilderness anywhere — to 
get your proper perspectives. 

You might spend some time at Moose 
Lake and — unless by chance, or he took 
you to it — never find the cabin of Jules 
Gouffeau, whose blazed trap line for many 
miles forms his solitary domain. There is 
not another human habitation within a dis- 
tance so great — that you would starve and 
die in the bush before you would ever find it. 

A remarkable man is Jules Gouffeau — 

— and, in the circumstances, not the least 
exceptional is the fact that you never will 
find him but clean shaven. You might 
travel the wilderness over and not be able 
to duplicate this one characteristic. But 


218 THE MONARCH OF MOOSE LAKE 


many others has Jules. His voice is always 
low and soft as a woman’s. Yet he stands 
six feet two and with only a knife has killed 
a bear, alone, in hand to claw conflict. And 
he loves books. Not current news — that 
he cannot get and does not know; but the 
old authors. These he knows and loves, 
and they are his sole companions on certain 
long winter evenings, or during the summer 
months when he has little to do but fish. 
It is worth a trip across a continent just to 
be able to know, and learn to love, this trapper 
of Moose Lake. 

It was summer when I first visited that 
region, armed only with fishing material and 
a camera, my object, besides the outing, 
being to collect material for some fishing 
stories. I was, however, particularly anxious 
to snap a moose — especially as at that 
time I had never even seen one. 

“But watch out for The Big Fellow,” 
Jules cautioned one day, as I was about to 
set out alone. “He’s bad,” he added. 

“Who and what is he?” I questioned, not 
yet understanding what was meant. 

“Can’t mistake him if you come across 
him,” he said. “He’s old, an’ he’s only got 


THE MONARCH OF MOOSE LAKE 219 

half a spread of antlers — other side broke 
clean off,” he added by way of explanation, 
falling, as he always did when upon the trail, 
into the vernacular common thereto. 

“But, Jules,” I expostulated, “you haven't 
yet told me whether this thing is fowl or 
fish or man or beast. Do tell me what it is.” 

“Oh, yes, I see,” he said — and smiled 
quietly in his own way. “He's a moose, 
Monsieur.” 

“Thanks,” I laughed, “I’ll watch out for 
him. Perhaps I can get a chance to snap 
his picture.” 

“But be careful to give him no chance 
to go for you, for he's mad 'most all the 
time,” was Jules' parting injunction as I 
took up the paddle and pushed out the canoe. 

I had rather poor luck with the trout that 
day, as I remember, but got a dandy snap 
shot of a fine little buck just before he jumped 
from the water as my canoe slipped silently 
upon him around a bend — and it's one of 
the best deer pictures I have in my whole 
collection. But I had seen nothing of the 
one-antlered moose. So that night after our 
supper was over, the things all put away, 
and the pipes were lit, I questioned Jules 


220 THE MONARCH OF MOOSE LAKE 


to tell me more in regard to the strange 
moose for which he so evidently had such a 
wholesome respect. 

“Well, I will tell you,” he began, then 
stopped and just puffed at his pipe for so 
long that I feared he was not going to go on. 
But I knew better than to attempt to push 
him. Then — 

“The first time I ever came across him,” 
Jules launched into his story, “was the year 
when his antlers had just reached their full 
spread of five feet from tip to tip — an* he 
was a good big moose then, I can tell you, 
though he has filled out some since. I was 
too far away to shoot an’ be sure — an’ you 
know, Monsieur, I do not believe in ever 
shooting unless you know you are going to 
kill. I can hit on the run as well as most — 
an' sometimes do, when I need the meat — 
but mostly I try for a still shot. I hope you 
understand, Monsieur, why I do this. It is 
just because there has been too much shoot- 
ing of game that often is merely wounded 
and gets away — sometimes to die of it 
later alone in the woods where no man may 
ever find them. It is unkind, Monsieur, an’ 
terrible waste. If they say it is not what you 


THE MONARCH OF MOOSE LAKE 221 


call sportsmanship, always to be sure or not 
to shoot — then they must say it. It is one 
thing to give your game a chance to get 
away. It is still another thing not to give 
them a chance to get away an’ die alone as 
waste after days or weeks of suffering. I 
leave it to you, Monsieur, which is the best.” 

”1 agree with you, perfectly, Jules,” I 
answered. “The law of humanity transcends 
that of mere sportsmanship. Shoot only to 
kill — and only to kill so much as you may 
actually need. But what about this big bull 
moose?” I urged him back to the story. 

“Yes, Monsieur. Then just after I saw 
him I heard the cow-call from across the 
lake, an’ he threw back his head. But then 
came the challenge from another bull. There 
would be a fight. I did not much need meat, 
so I paddled ver’ quiet along the shore to see 
them have it. By the time I got closer, the 
cow-call came again across the water — an’ 
I could see both bulls coming together in a 
little clearing by the portage. An’ such a 
fight as it was, Monsieur! Quick as fate, when 
they got close enough, they lowered an’ 
charged. 

It was a case of which had the toughest 


222 THE MONARCH OF MOOSE LAKE 

antlers, the most powerful neck, an’ the 
greatest endurance. I do not know how 
long it was — but it was a long fight for 
sure. Then, when I still could not tell which 
it was to be who would come out, the one 
I call The Big Fellow raised his head when 
they charged — he just stepped off to one 
side an’ up he went high. As the other 
moose passed clean by without hitting him 
at all, down came those wicked fore-feet rip- 
ping through the other’s side — then quick, 
before he had a chance to turn, The Big 
Fellow was down and charged again, catch- 
ing the other bull half sideways, an’ over he 
went. So it was old One-Antler that 
answered the cow-moose call.” 

1 1 Did he have only one antler then ? ” I asked . 

"Non, non, Monsieur! I have said his spread 
was sixty inches from tip to tip. That is, I 
mean, they were full — an’ he was big.” 

“Do you know, Jules, when he lost his 
antler — or how?” 

“Well, no — an’ yes,” he answered. “The 
next fall — it was at the other lake side of 
the same portage — I came across signs of 
such a bull moose fight as you might live 
forever an’ never see. The moss was all 


THE MONARCH OF MOOSE LAKE 223 


pawed up an’ the rocks kicked about in 
every direction. Down by the lake, half in 
the water an’ half out, where he had been 
dead for hours — was a bull moose that I 
am sure, Monsieur, was even bigger than 
The Big Fellow himself. An’ locked tight 
in this dead moose's antlers was the full half 
of some other bull's antlers which had been 
broke clean off at what you call the base." 

"And so you think it was The Big Fellow 
who had done this other job, too?" I asked. 

“Anyway, the next time I saw him, which 
was just across the beaver-dam at the end 
of Moose Lake, he had only one antler an' 
the other side had been broke off." Jules 
answered low, but with the air of conviction 
that was his way. "An' besides, Monsieur," 
he added, to dispel any uncertainty — "it 
was the right side that he had left; an' it was 
the left side that I found locked in the antlers 
of the dead moose." 

"But how does it happen, Jules, that you 
have never shot this moose?" I inquired, 
feeling that there must be some reason. 

"That I do not know, Monsieur," — but I 
later learned the reason. 

It seems that in the later fall of that same 


224 THE MONARCH OF MOOSE LAKE 


year, a lone hunter visited Jules’ cabin, and 
remained for a week as his guest. One day 
when Jules had remained behind, he heard 
several shots in quick succession just across 
the narrow part of Moose Lake. For some 
inexplainable reason he jumped into his 
canoe without taking his rifle, and paddled 
over to the point whence the shots had come. 
Arriving closer, he could hear much snorting 
and tearing of the brush; and when closer 
still could see the one-antlered moose charging 
back and forth around a gigantic pine, behind 
and around which the hunter was dodging, 
without his rifle. It was evident that the 
moose was badly wounded, but still full of 
fight, and that the hunter had run out of am- 
munition before finishing him. 

The old bull was crafty and, when he 
noticed the canoe approaching, supposed that 
here was a new enemy and of course with a 
rifle. So he left the empty-handed hunter to 
make for Jules before the dread rifle could 
get in its work. Over the rock he plunged 
into the lake and made straight for the on- 
coming canoe. Jules swerved from his course 
just in time, for he had been close in when 
the big bull charged. 


THE MONARCH OF MOOSE LAKE 225 


There followed a race full of excitement for 
Jules Gouffeau. This way and that he swung 
the light cedar craft. But he was fresh and 
strong, while the moose was weak from his 
wounds. Gradually Jules pulled away from 
immediate danger. Then — since no rifle 
shot rang out — the moose turned and swam 
to the opposite shore. Before plunging into 
the forest, he looked back as though — so 
Jules has told me — to fix forever in his brain 
the picture of the man who had not fired a 
shot. 

All this I learned from Jules — with this 
one thing more: that two months later, 
as he was pushing along on his snow shoes 
over his trap line, he came to one of his 
traps which held a beaver drowned in under 
the ice. He was stooping over to pull in on 
the chain when, on looking back over his 
shoulder, he saw the big one-antlered moose 
step out of the forest, coming straight toward 
the water in his direction. Jules stood up 
and reached for the nearby rifle. As he did 
so, the moose stopped still and stared straight 
at him. Then he turned and, without hurry- 
ing, went back into the forest whence he had 
come. And — because in that second it 


226 THE MONARCH OF MOOSE LAKE 


flashed upon Jules that the moose had not 
charged because of the experience of their 
last meeting — he did not raise the rifle that 
never missed. Instead, he went back to the 
trap that held the dead beaver and finished 
pulling in the chain. And from that day to 
this, Jules Gouffeau has never looked at the 
one-antlered bull over the sights of his rifle 
— and those who are his friends respect his 
wishes and follow his example. But, while he 
has an abiding faith that he himself is safe 
from attack, he always urges the utmost 
caution on the few who are ever privileged 
to visit him in his cabin home — for Jules 
admits that The Big Fellow is bad, and that 
he is a killer. 

And now I have told you the story of The 
Big Fellow, as Jules always called the one- 
antlered moose that for many years had 
ruled as king of the forests all about Moose 
Lake. Never had there come any beast 
single-handed to challenge his right to rule. 
Once a pack of wolves might have proven his 
undoing, but Jules happened along just in 
time to drive them off, killing four of them 
in the process. And this incident furthered 
the spirit almost of comradeship that had 


THE MONARCH OF MOOSE LAKE 227 


grown up between the lone trapper and the 
big bull moose. 

But on none of my several expeditions into 
the Moose Lake country had I ever knowingly 
crossed paths with this mightiest of all the 
moose. Once, to be sure, at some little 
distance I saw what I thought was the head 
of a cow moose lying down among the brush 

— and of course, I wouldn’t ever shoot a 
cow. I had noticed it by seeing an ear move 
as I was coming along quietly through some 
soft moss. Then the creature must have 
gotten my scent, and was off through the 
bush. I had the impression that it was 
much larger than any cow-moose I had seen 

— and it seemed as though the big cow 
suddenly developed half an antler on the 
opposite side of her head — but I could not 
see at all distinctly and have always realized 
that this may have been just my imagination. 

The next year, however, The Big Fellow 
and I did have our actual encounter, and 
in a most unexpected manner. And I was 
alone, Jules having gone off in another direc- 
tion with an understanding that we would 
circle about and meet for lunch at an old 


228 THE MONARCH OF MOOSE LAKE 


abandoned logging camp some six miles to 
the west on the next lake. 

Realizing that the morning was rapidly 
advancing, having just consulted both my 
watch on one wrist and my compass on the 
other, I was hurrying along to my appointed 
meeting place with Jules, when, as if they 
had dropped there right out of the sky, I 
suddenly found myself separated merely by 
some fifty paces from two big bull moose 
in the very act of plunging to the first charge 
in deadly combat. I could tell that they had 
neither heard me nor gotten my scent, so 
engrossed were they both in the coming bat- 
tle. As I gradually collected my scattered 
senses and realized the nature of the awful 
strife to which I was about to bear solitary 
witness, it came over me that one of these 
two was in the very prime of his most glori- 
ous strength, while his antagonist was a war- 
rior of many battles — and had but half his 
normal spread of antlers! 

And then my senses went racing again as 
there resounded through the forest the thud 
of hoofs, the crash of mighty antlers locked 
in death’s embrace. This way and then that 
the battle went, the breath of each hissing 


THE MONARCH OF MOOSE LAKE 229 


in mighty gasps from quivering nostrils. 
Weight was about evenly matched against 
weight. Strength — again I could see there 
were no odds. Endurance — would not this 
advantage fall to the younger animal, in the 
full flush of his perfect power? And the old 
fellow was handicapped by having but one 
antler! But I could soon see that he more 
than made up for this by a generalship 
acquired through experience in many similar 
encounters. Always he so maneuvered that 
the attack was made from an angle that 
gave to his one antler every ounce of its 
potential power, both from an offensive and 
defensive standpoint. 

But the point of endurance! As I stood 
powerless to stop the fray without the use of 
the rifle, it began to dawn on me that at least 
Jules’ moose had met his master. It is always 
so, in the end, when age meets youth. It is 
the inevitable law of the universe that youth 
must conquer. It has a certain something 
before which all the experience of the ages 
loses its power. It has — Y OUTH ! 

At last I could see that the giant strength 
of the older neck was giving way. It could 
be but a question of time — with but one 


230 THE MONARCH OF MOOSE LAKE 


answer. Fascinated, I watched. The thought 
came to me that the kind thing to do would 
be to put the old fellow out of his misery with 
a ball from my rifle. He was bleeding freely 
now, but so was the other, for all of that. 
There were no odds to give or take — except 
that inevitable one of the endurance of 
youth. The time had come when the end 
might be quick — for his sight was dimming 
— through the first misjudgment of step or 
gauge of distance. I was glad Jules was not 
there to witness the fall of the mighty moose 
that he had come to feel his friend. 

Had not the time come to shoot? I won- 
dered. There was no other way to stop it 
that I could think of. A rifle ball would 
keep The Big Fellow ever from suffering the 
humiliation of defeat and death, at the 
hands of his younger rival. I raised the rifle 
and my eye fell along the sights until they 
were in direct line with the head of Jules’ 
moose. They shifted until I had the exact 
vulnerable spot true to the bead. My finger 
pressed slowly against the hard metal of the 
trigger. And then — 

Was I pointing at the moose that Jules 
would have me select for the bali? The rifle 


THE MONARCH OF MOOSE LAKE 231 


fell again to the pit of my arm. Would Jules, 
were he in my place, put the old moose out 
of his misery, as I was about to do — or 
would he turn the rifle on the other moose, 
instead? Would it be right and fair play 
to sacrifice the younger, stronger, winning 
animal for one that had about served his 
years? These were the thoughts that raced 
through my mind as I hesitated. The fair- 
play, sensible thing for me to do seemed 
to be to follow my first inclination. 

But, on the other hand, the thought of 
friendship slipped in to crowd out the others. 
Never forsake a friend. I was Jules' friend 
— and the old moose was Jules' friend. 
Was not the right thing, after all, for me to 
save my friend's friend? Yet before I decided, 
I considered two facts: first, that there was 
no other possible way out of it than to shoot 
one or the other; and second, that, as Jules 
had said, The Big Fellow was bad and might 
come for me after I had dispatched his adver- 
sary — in which case I might have to finish 
him off, too, in self defense. 

Again the rifle came to my shoulder — but 
this time with more decision than before. 
Again my eye fell along the sights — just as 


232 THE MONARCH OF MOOSE LAKE 


the young bull, finding himself at last in the 
right position for it, was starting a terrible 
charge from the side of the missing antler. 
The finish might have come soon thereafter 
— but I pulled the trigger and the deadly 
charge was never completed. The young 
bull fell in his tracks within five feet of his 
mark. 

Then I waited to see if Old One-Antler 
would make for me — and for a minute it 
seemed that this was exactly what he was 
going to do. He was an ugly sight as he came 
forward a few steps, blood covered and with 
a wicked eye. I resolved to wait until the 
very last minute before sending him also, to 
save myself, the way of his late adversary. 

When I felt the time had almost come for 
me to act, The Big Fellow stopped short in 
his tracks and stood looking me over. It 
must have been a full minute — but seemed 
years — that I waited to throw the rifle to 
my shoulder if he should come forward 
another step. But this I never did, for the 
moose turned finally and staggered slowly off 
into the forest — still the Monarch of Moose 
Lake. 


THE MIGHTIEST EAGLE 











THE MIGHTIEST EAGLE 


B OUNDED on one side by the end of 
civilization, and with its opposite limits 
crowding close upon the edge of a vast 
primeval wilderness, there lies, in one of the 
great provinces of Canada, a thriving little 
city of several thousand inhabitants. To 
the south, there is water and much naviga- 
tion. To the north, there is nothing but tall 
trees and tiny lakes, fearless trappers and 
boundless forests. But business has pushed 
its way into this far northland — just as 
business, in some form or another, always 
penetrates to the very ends of the earth. 
To understand, one has merely to be familiar 
with the old organization and former power 
of the Hudson Bay Company. The indus- 
try back of this story, however, was of a far 
different character. The city of which we 
have spoken is the home of mammoth paper- 
mills — because the required vast quantities 
of wood-pulp are available almost at its doors. 
Spruce was the principal wood needed — 
and spruce was plentiful. 

235 


236 


THE MIGHTIEST EAGLE 


Bruce Bigelow — with dark hair and dark 
eyes, broad of shoulder and straight as a pine 

— was the twenty-six-year-old son of the head 
of the paper industry. Bruce had fought 
during the Great War, and with marked 
distinction, in the flying-corps. When the 
fighting was over, he started, under his father, 
to learn the paper business from the ground 
up ; soon after which he made a suggestion to 
the head of the house. 

“There is not to be found anywhere, 
Father, a map of the bush that is worth the 
paper it is printed on,” he said one day. “If 
you really want to locate to a certainty the best 
spruce, why not get a good seaplane? The 
whole territory is fairly sprinkled with lakes, 

— almost every ridge hides a new one, — so 
that a seaplane should have no trouble at all 
in making a landing.” 

If it would be practicable, here was the 
germ of something valuable. At first, how- 
ever, the elder Bigelow was skeptical. Would 
it not be as easy to become lost in an air- 
plane over the woods, as to become lost in 
the woods itself? This was only one of the 
seeming obstacles that occurred to Robert 
Bigelow. There were many others. 


THE MIGHTIEST EAGLE 


237 


“But,” argued Bruce, “no man, or set of 
men, have ever been so skilled in the sense of 
direction as your trained aviator. I do not 
believe such fears will prove well founded, 
Father; besides, we can have the machine 
equipped with the best kind of instruments.” 

It was an idea worth the experiment, 
anyhow, and in the end Robert Bigelow signed 
a requisition for a small seaplane, the best 
of its size that could be built, and it was 
understood that Bruce’s next promotion would 
be to the position of official pilot. It was to 
be a plane of special design, built to order, and 
it would be some time before its manufacturers 
would be able to make delivery. This was 
satisfactory, as it was an innovation and hence 
there was no definite, immediate need for it. 

Before the new plane arrived, a canoe 
exploration for new spruce had already been 
organized, and it was decided that Bruce 
should make one of the party. A single- 
track railroad ran from the city straight into 
the north, through the very heart of the 
wilderness, as far as Hudson Bay. The 
party, with three canoes and a full outfit of 
provisions, left by rail, and were to be dumped 
off two hundred miles in the bush on the 


238 


THE MIGHTIEST EAGLE 


shores of the lake that would make the first 
lap of their long homeward paddle. Through 
many such lakes, over portages, down winding 
rivers lay their way, penetrating the uncharted 
forest. 

Bruce had been in the bush before, and it 
was always a tonic to his system. He had 
always loved the wild — and it seemed espe- 
cially exhilarating on this particular trip 
after the period of confinement at the mill. 
Who can ever tire of the magic spell of the 
wilderness! It was in August and the days 
were warm, but not too warm. The nights 
were crisply cool. There were six besides 
Bruce in the party — two guides and four 
company men. All were in their blankets 
early at night and up early each morning — 
refreshed by the deep, dead sleep such as one 
can best know only on balsam boughs in the 
northern wilderness. The low-hanging mist 
would still be clouding the lakes by the time 
the canoes were pushed out into their silvery 
waters for the beginning of a new day's work. 
Bruce always took his morning's dip in the 
cool, clear water, to the unfailing wonder of 
the guides. They thought nothing of snow- 
shoeing over their trap-lines in the dead of 


THE MIGHTIEST EAGLE 


239 


winter, when the mercury dropped to fifty 
degrees below zero, but as for plunging into 
the keenly cool August water — that was 
unthinkable! 

Glorious days followed one another in close 
succession as the three trim canoes nosed 
their way farther and farther into vast forest. 
The sixth day was drawing to an end when, not 
far off, Bruce heard the wings of a partridge 
flapping in flight. He knew it would not 
go far, and he suddenly decided there was 
nothing he would rather have for his break- 
fast in the morning than fried partridge. The 
others were all busy getting supper and 
making camp for the night when Bruce 
picked up his rifle and slipped off without 
announcing his intention to the rest of the 
party. They first noticed his absence a little 
later, when a shot broke the silence of the forest. 

* ‘Who’s that, I wonder?” spoke up Sam 
Sargent, the older guide. 

“So I was wondering, too” said his partner. 
“Must be Bruce. He’s not about. I reckon 
he’s just trying his luck.” These men of the 
wild places, who had known Bruce all his 
life, never even thought of him or spoke to 
him except by his first name. 


240 


THE MIGHTIEST EAGLE 


“Do you suppose he’s lost and shooting 
to call for help?” asked George Parker, with 
just a trace of uneasiness. 

“Sure not,” Sam hastened to assure him. 
“That boy’s been in the woods all his life — 
he’ll take care of himself. Besides,” he added 
with conviction, “he’d have fired three times 
if he was calling for help. No — he’ll most 
likely bring in something to add to our grub.” 
And that closed the incident. 

Bruce was not in trouble, either. He had, 
however, very neatly shot a big, fat partridge. 
But he did not at once start to retrace his 
steps. Several other birds had flown at the 
shot, and Bruce followed them up to get 
enough for the whole party. Yet they were 
hard to locate. Most of them had taken to 
the trees, where it is always very difficult to 
find them unless you know exactly where to 
look. By and by he happened to stumble 
on one that had kept to the ground. With 
a rush of wings, it was off — and took to a 
tree some distance ahead. Bruce followed 
to get in position for a shot. In the end he 
bagged the bird. 

He now had two, and felt that if he could 
get a couple more, he would have enough to 


THE MIGHTIEST EAGLE 


241 


share them with all the party next morning. 
So he kept on, intent upon this object. He 
did not realize how late it was getting until 
about twenty minutes after, when he came 
upon some birds. Taking a good tree-rest 
for the rifle, he drew bead on one overhead 
— and down it flopped. But it was very 
hard to find. Looking up through the trees 
at the sky, in shooting, he had found his 
sights easy enough. But on the darker 
ground, in the thick of the brush, it proved 
to be no small task to locate the partridge 
that in color so nearly matched its sur- 
roundings. When at last he found the bird, 
Bruce realized that it was high time to be 
getting back to camp. And with three birds 
— the proof of three good rifle-shots — that 
is what he proceeded to do. 

But Bruce had committed the fatal error of 
the bush: he had been so absorbed in following 
the birds that he had forgotten to keep his 
sense of direction. After traveling some little 
distance, he knew that he had lost his bear- 
ings. But he was dogged in his determination 
not to admit it by firing the three-shot signal 
for help — at least not yet. Vainly he strove 
to determine the direction of the camp. 


242 


THE MIGHTIEST EAGLE 


It was rapidly growing darker; night was 
approaching more swiftly with each lost 
minute — silently spreading itself like an 
enveloping blanket over the solitudes of the 
wild. And so at last — but not until the 
very last — did the war hero of the air fire 
the three tell-tale shots of distress. 

Back in camp, old Sam had just expressed 
in the one breath both his worry and impa- 
tience over Bruce’s failure to return, when 
the signal shots were heard. 

“By gracious!” he exclaimed, now thor- 
oughly alarmed, “that boy is lost; and what’s 
more, he’s gone too far! Those shots are not 
as close as I was sure he would be. He should 
have known better,” he added in vexation. 
Then he quickly grabbed up a gun and shot 
three times into the darkening sky. 

“What can we do?” exclaimed Parker, his 
voice quivering with the nervousness that he 
could not hide. 

“Nothing more — now,” said Sam, trying 
to conceal his own uneasiness. “Wait till 
we hear from him again and see if he’s coming 
toward us.” 

Out in the bush, Bruce heard the shots 
from the camp — and it shook even his steady 


THE MIGHTIEST EAGLE 


243 


nerve that they sounded so much farther 
away than he had dreamed could be possible. 
‘ ‘Dog-gone it,” he muttered, between clenched 
teeth, “but I am in a pretty fix.” He pro- 
ceeded toward the direction whence the sound 
of the shots had come. For some time he 
went on without shooting again — and felt 
chagrined that he had had to fire at all. But 
it was getting so dark that he finally decided 
to signal again — this time, just to let them 
know he was coming. He fired and at first 
thought that the echoes were his answer. 
Then he heard, unmistakably, the three shots 
in reply from the camp. But the sound came 
from farther away than it had before — much 
farther away! He realized then what had 
happened — in some inexplainable way, he 
had got turned about. 

“Confound the echoes!” he said, vexed at 
his blunder. “They've misled me.” In his 
heart there was no fear — only stronger 
determination. 

Bruce sat down on a log and analyzed the 
situation. He knew the ways of the woods 
well enough to understand the foolishness 
of trying to get back that night. It might 
lead him into a worse tangle than ever. Not 


244 


THE MIGHTIEST EAGLE 


feeling hungry, he found a windfall and pre- 
pared to make himself as comfortable as pos- 
sible for the night. Then it was that he 
noticed he had only three matches with him. 
He decided to do without a fire, though 
during the night it grew so cold that he was 
chilled to the bone. 

Back in camp, by the portage, there was no 
rest for any one — less even than Bruce 
himself enjoyed. They took turns keeping 
watch, so that some one would surely be 
awake and ready to answer any summoning 
shots from Bruce. But as no more came, 
in the morning they held a solemn council 
and several plans for making a thorough 
search were discussed. 

It was Sam, the guide, who finally issued 
the ultimatum. 1 ‘Andre will take the rest 
of you and go on,” he said. “I stay.” 

“And I stay with you — I will not move 
a step out of the woods until Bruce is found!” 
Parker exclaimed, in a voice choked with 
emotion. 

In the end, that is the way it was decided. 
Only Sam and Parker remained, though none 
of them wanted to push on. That all should 
stay was not practical, as Sam pointed out 


THE MIGHTIEST EAGLE 


245 


so decidedly as to appear unfeeling. Yet 
all knew this was not so. Stolidly the other 
four in two of the canoes pushed off, waving 
farewell to their two comrades who remained 
behind. 

“Good luck to you!” Sam called back to 
them; “we shall find him — and we shall not 
come in until we do.” It was beyond the 
power of Parker to speak a word. He was 
crushed by an intuitive dread of what might 
be before them. 


The first faint streak of dawn found Bruce 
hungry ; as well as chilled to the bone. His 
fingers were so cold that he wasted one match 
and so used two of his three in lighting a fire. 
Then he picked and prepared one of his 
partridges and roasted it on a stick over the 
coals. He knelt by a spring nearby and 
drank deep of the cool water. He felt better 
when he had eaten, even though the lack of 
salt made the meal a poor substitute for his 
usual fare. The moon still hung overhead, 
as if loath to leave; and the forests were 
wrapped in a heavy mantle of mist. In any 
other circumstances, Bruce would have 


246 


THE MIGHTIEST EAGLE 


thrilled to the exhilaration of its free and wild 
enchantment. 

In such a wilderness, it is one thing to seek; 
it is another thing to find. Bruce went from 
bad to worse in his wanderings. Though his 
ammunition was running low, twice at inter- 
vals he fired signal shots, but to his dismay 
there came no answer. The party could not 
have gone on without him — that was incred- 
ible. But how else explain the failure to 
reply? He could not know that Sam and 
Parker were out of earshot, having, with the 
coming of dawn, left camp to begin their 
search for him, first tacking to a tree beside 
the camp-fire a message telling of the direc- 
tion they had taken and that they would 
return to the camp at stated intervals. 

It sometimes happens that even the most 
experienced woodsman will lose his bearings. 
Nothing seems as it ought to be; the wrong 
direction appears to be the right one. This 
was the predicament in which Bruce found 
himself — although he had retained his self- 
control to a remarkable degree. Indeed, had 
it not been for night again falling, the chances 
are that he would have found his way back 
to his companions. Bruce was too much of 


THE MIGHTIEST EAGLE 


247 


a woodsman — and too much of a soldier — 
to be nervous; but darkness, combined with 
a certain impatience, had brought about the 
same result as if he had been so. 

Another meal without salt, and he lost all 
relish for partridge ; then, too, with his matches 
gone, he could not cook them. Without fire 
or blankets, he suffered terribly at night. 
But there was one thing growing abundantly 
in the few clearer spaces at this season — 
berries. These formed Bruce’s sole diet after 
the first morning. There were blueberries 
and raspberries, and he had always been fond 
of both. Had it not been for these, he cer- 
tainly would have perished. But these sus- 
tained life, and he was spared the necessity of 
eating raw game. And so the days dragged 
on, one after another. Each night he cut a 
new notch in a stick he carried, to keep track 
of the time. 

There were eight notches on the stick when, 
one day, Bruce stood on the edge of a high 
precipice that fell sheer to the shores of what 
seemed the most beautiful little lake he had 
ever seen. The setting sun, a ball of red fire, 
sent its slanting rays through the trees of the 
forest on the opposite shore and across the 


248 


THE MIGHTIEST EAGLE 


deep blue water, like a track of glory. Far 
back rose the timber-covered hills — miles 
upon miles of unbroken forest. There was 
one tall pine that towered so far above the 
others — it was as high again as any other 
tree around it — that it seemed to stand as a 
guardian over all* that forest world. 

In spite of his weakness and hunger, Bruce 
thrilled to the magic spell of the wilderness. 
Here was the world as unspoiled as when 
God gave it as His gift to man. And here 
was a man fighting for his life in this primi- 
tive land — fighting for it just as the moose 
and the bear and the wolf must fight for 
theirs. But with this difference — that gen- 
erations of civilization had softened Bruce. 
Yet behind Bruce were generations of fighting 
men, — and he himself was one, — so he was 
making a fight that would have been beyond 
a lesser courage. A weaker spirit would have 
succumbed, while Bruce could still respond 
to the beauty of the menacing wilderness. 
It was fortunate for him that it was August 
and not December, for then there would 
have been no berries for food and he would 
soon have perished of the cold. 

The day on which Bruce cut the twentieth 


THE MIGHTIEST EAGLE 


249 


notch on his tally-stick, he was so weak that 
he could barely crawl. His clothing was torn 
and stained and hung loosely on his emaciated 
body. His head ached, and he was unspeak- 
ably weary. He found a windfall, pulled 
some moss into it, and lay down. Almost 
immediately he fell into the deep sleep of 
utter exhaustion. It was the first time he 
had allowed himself to lie down for rest 
during the day. He had been afraid to do so. 
But now how good the warm sun felt as it 
found its way to the open side of the windfall ! 

How long Bruce slept, he did not know. 
He was suddenly startled into wakefulness by 
the report of a rifle nearby. Slowly and pain- 
fully he propped himself up; and as he did so, 
the dominant feature of his nature, the die- 
fighting impulse, reawakened. Almost intui- 
tively, he reached for his rifle and fired three 
shots into the air in rapid succession. The 
answer was close — unmistakably close. With 
a mighty effort of will, Bruce pulled himself 
together. He knew that his ears had not 
deceived him — and he knew also that he 
must not let this chance at deliverance slip 
by. It would be the last. Then, as he 
fought for mastery of his deadening senses, 


250 


THE MIGHTIEST EAGLE 


there came a great cracking of the brush, and 
a moment later a giant of a man made his 
way through the undergrowth and came 
toward him. 

“Ah!” he said, as he hurried to the windfall 
and placed his great hand on Bruce's shoulder, 
“I see I come just in time.” 

“Yes, — in — time,” Bruce whispered 
faintly. And then the exhaustion that he had 
fought so gallantly got the better of him at 
last, and he collapsed in the big man's arms. 

When he awoke, Bruce was lying on a soft 
bed of balsam boughs. It was light. Vaguely 
he realized that he must have slept a long 
time, he felt so much refreshed. He must 
cut another notch in his tally-stick, he thought 
hazily. But as he felt for it, he was gently 
pushed back. 

“Better rest some more,” said a kindly 
voice in his ear. 

“But where am I, and how did I get here?” 
Bruce whispered, without any further desire 
to move. 

“You’re all right now, in my cabin,” the 
voice answered. “Wait — I have some par- 
tridge broth ready for you. After you have 
that, you will feel better and we can talk.” 


THE MIGHTIEST EAGLE 


251 


Bruce took as much of the broth as his new 
friend would allow him, and then declared his 
wish to know what had happened. 

“It was yesterday afternoon that I found 
you,” the man said, “and I carried you 
down here, where you have slept so hard I 
wondered if you would ever wake up. I 
wanted to give you some food, for I could see 
you were almost starved.” 

“And who are you — whom I have to 
thank for all this?” Bruce asked... 

“My name’s McCormack. My trap-line, in 
season, runs right by the place where you 
were lying. And you,” he added, “must be 
Bigelow. Am I not right?” 

“Yes — but how did you know?” Bruce 
asked, surprised. 

“Sam — Sam Sargent — was through this 
way with another man about a week ago look- 
ing for you, and he gave me your name then. 
I never saw Sam act so beat up in his life.” 

“Good old Sam!” murmured Bruce. “We 
must find him and let him know.” 

“But not until you’re stronger — then 
we’ll see what we can do,” the trapper 
answered, very firmly. “You’ll be able to 
travel in a day or two.” 


252 


THE MIGHTIEST EAGLE 


“We must start tomorrow, if not today," 
said Bruce, and then he fell asleep again. 
He was weaker than he had realized. 

While he slept, McCormack was busy exam- 
ining his guest's rifle. It was the finest 
specimen he had ever seen. He carried it 
outside, the better to study its mechanism. 
"Bet it would drop a moose at the end of the 
lake!" he said to himself. Overhead, a great 
bird soared in sweeping circles. It was an 
eagle, and McCormack found himself peering 
at it through the sights. He was tempted 
to pull the trigger, but he remembered that 
that would awaken Bruce in the cabin. And 
then' there suddenly appeared over the dis- 
tant pines another flying thing that, though 
so far away, seemed mightier than the eagle. 
But McCormack could tell it was no bird such 
as ever before had flown over those forests. 
The noise of its flight, even at a distance, 
was the strangest thing the trapper had ever 
heard. Onward it came. And as it drew 
nearer, the trapper's instinct to fire proved 
too strong to be resisted. Carefully he sighted 
along the barrel and pulled the trigger — once 
— twice — three times! 

Within the cabin, Bruce had been dream- 


THE MIGHTIEST EAGLE 


253 


in g — dreaming of fighting in France. The 
purr of the battle-planes was in his ears. As 
he gradually came to himself, the purring of 
the planes became more and more distinct. 
And then the dream broke off as he sat up, 
fully awake. What was that! He seemed 
to hear the distant hum of an airplane motor. 
That was a sound he could never mistake. 
But of course it was foolish, and he smiled to 
himself at the thought. Then the three 
shots sounded in his ears. With a great 
effort he gained the door. There the purr of 
a plane became unmistakable — it could be 
nothing else! 

‘ 1 McCormack !” he cried, reading in the 
trapper’s eyes what had happened, “McCor- 
mack, don’t shoot again — that’s an airplane, 
man, it’s an airplane!” 

The big trapper hung his head. He had 
heard stories about the airplanes in the Great 
War, but he had never seen one — and cer- 
tainly nothing of the kind had ever before 
penetrated into that part of the wilderness. 

But Bruce was paying no attention to his 
new friend. His eyes followed the plane in 
its flight. There was something peculiar 
about it. It had been flying fairly low — 


254 


THE MIGHTIEST EAGLE 


but now it rose several thousand feet. This 
might have been to avoid the gun-fire. Yet, 
strangely, the pilot seemed loath to leave. 
Around and around he flew. And then — 
down, down the plane dropped, head first, 
twisting and turning. 

“I must have hit him!” cried the trapper, 
with terrified eyes, and he gripped Bruce 
fiercely by the arm. 

“Not necessarily,” said Bruce. “That’s 
the old spiral. He’s probably afraid you’ll 
shoot again. Watch him right her before he 
hits the lake. Whoever’s flying her is a 
real pilot — I could see that from the first.” 

McCormack watched a sight which his eyes 
had never before beheld. He still gripped 
Bruce’s arm hard, convulsively tightening his 
hold as the plane quickly righted itself and 
then landed neatly on the surface of the lake. 
But a little later, as the pilot stepped ashore, 
it was Bruce’s turn for astonishment. 

“ You — you \ ” he stammered. “But how 
— tell me how — did you happen — ” but he 
became too weak to stand and sank down on 
the soft earth. 

“Gee, old man, but I’m glad to see you! 
There — there now — it’s all right. Better 


THE MIGHTIEST EAGLE 


255 


stay where you are for a spell. I can see 
you’re pretty much all in. They never 
came nearly so close to getting you over in 
France, did they now?” laughed the pilot. 
Later it proved that he had been Bruce’s 
chum in the flying-corps. 

“But,” Bruce cried weakly, almost over- 
come with astonishment, “what in the world 
are you doing here?” 

“Easiest question you ever asked,” came 
the hearty answer. “That’s the new plane 
you ordered for the company. She arrived 
last week. Isn’t she a beauty, Bruce? And 
as soon as she came, your father wired for 
me at Montreal — and my only instructions 
were to find you.” 

“But how did you happen to be exactly 
here?” 

“Pure coincidence.” 

“And you came down, thinking the shoot- 
ing was queer?” 

“That’s it.” 

“Well, of all things!” Then, quickly, Bruce 
asked: “My friend didn’t score a hit, did he? 
It was just a mistake. But let me introduce 
you two. McCormack, this is Jimmie Carew, 


256 


THE MIGHTIEST EAGLE 


the greatest fighting flier that ever sat in a 
plane.” 

“No, that last is wrong — he’s the one, 
there!” Carew smilingly told the trapper as 
they shook hands. 

Then he turned to Bruce. 

“Now,” he urged, “cut out all foolishness 
and get right back into this cabin and lie 
down. You need all the rest you can get, so 
we can fly back tomorrow morning. No,” — 
he cut off an interruption, — “I’m boss on 
this trip, and we don’t fly back till tomorrow. 
You might as well make up your mind to it.” 

And Bruce saw that there was nothing else 
for him to do. 

McCormack offered to find Sam Sargent and 
give him the news. The camp from which 
Bruce had strayed was only two lakes distant, 
and the trapper was glad to paddle over in 
the morning and leave the message. That 
was the point from which Sam was working, 
the old camp to which he came back every 
few days as a base. 

“And you’d better see he gets the extra 
grub I brought along,” said Carew, “for we’ll 
be back home in the morning in less than 


THE MIGHTIEST EAGLE 


257 


two hours and won’t need it, but Sargent 
and Parker may be running low.” 

“Sure,” answered McCormack. “But what 
was that you said about two hours?” 

“Easy,” said Carew. “Two hours — or 
less. Why?” 

But the trapper did not reply. Miracles 
were coming to pass too rapidly, and he was 
bewildered. 

And the next morning, as the mightiest 
eagle shook herself free of the lake for that 
two-hour run, with her pilot and passenger on 
board, McCormack was still absorbed in his 
amazement. He was still standing spell- 
bound on the shore of the lake as the plane 
passed high over the top of the farthest hill 
and then slipped suddenly out of sight. 




















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